" 


THEOPHILE  GAUTIER 


ojc  o! 


TALES  BEFORE  SUPPER. 


THEOPHILE   GAUTIER 


GEMS  FROM  THE  FRENCH 


TALES  BEFORE  SUPPER 


FROM 


THEOPHILE  GAUTIER 

fss>? 


AND 

PROSPER  MERIMEE 


TOLD    IN    ENGLISH    BY    MYNDART     VERELST 


AND   DELAYED   WITH    A    PROEM 

BY 

EDGAR  SALTUS 


BRENTANO'S 

PARIS  WASHINGTON  CHICAGO  LONDON 


COPYRIGHT,  1887, 
BRENTANO'S 

All  Rights  Reservtd. 


OF  STRAUSS  ft  KI 
NEW  YORK. 


To 

E.  G.  R. 


CONTENTS. 

PACK 

INTRODUCTION 7 

AVATAR 31 

THE  VENUS  OF  IT.T.R 175 


INTRODUCTION. 


INTRODUCTION. 


A  SHORT  time  ago,  in  the  green  room  of  the 
Paris  Opera,  an  old  gentleman  in  an  ill-fitting 
coat  announced  to  whomsoever  would  listen 
that  the  most  beautiful  thing  in  the  world  was 
a  beautiful  edition  of  Gautier.  He  looked 
boldly  about  as  though  hoping  for  a  contra- 
diction or  the  chance  of  an  argument,  but  the 
remark  passed  unchallenged,  and  nodding  sa- 
gaciously to  himself  he  went  back  to  the  stalls. 

The  old  gentleman  perhaps  was  wrong. 
There  are,  doubtless,  many  things  in  the  world 
more  beautiful  than  that  which  pleasured  his 
book-lover  fancy,  but  in  literature  at  least  the 
number  is  small.  Theophile  Gautier  is  the 
Delacroix  of  prose. 

It  is  related  of  Anne  Boleyn  that  one  of  her 
eyes  was  green  and  the  other  black.  Gautier's 
were  even  more  chromatic  ;  they  received  and 
reflected  with  the  exactitude  of  a  prism  every 
hue  from  argent  to  basaltic.  His  mental  retina 
was  an  oscillating  rainbow ;  and,  were  it  possi- 
ble to  sum  him  up  in  a  phrase,  it  might  be  said 


IO  INTRODUCTION. 

that  of  French  writers  he  it  was  who  possessed 
the  clearest  perception  of  color. 

Gautier  first  entered  the  drawing-room  of 
letters  at  the  age  of  nineteen.  Under  his  arm 
he  carried  a  volume  of  verse.  The  cover  was 
of  pink  paper,  and  its  publication  had  been 
paid  for  in  advance. 

This  event  occurred  in  1830.  Romanti- 
cism was  then  at  fever  heat.  Scott  had  been 
translated,  and,  what  is  more,  was  being  read  ; 
Shakespeare  had  been  unearthed  ;  Byron  was 
delighting  the  world;  Goethe  glowed  in  Olym- 
pian majesty.  It  was  an  era  of  great  deeds,  of 
sonorous  adjectives,  and  exuberant  enthusi- 
asm: it  was  the  coming  of  age  of  the  nineteenth 
century.  It  had  been  found,  but  a  little  be- 
fore, that  French  literature,  if  not  next  door  to 
a  pauper,  lived  practically  in  the  same  street. 
At  once  the  death  warrant  of  classicism  was 
signed.  Through  the  vivifying  influence  of 
Chateaubriand,  and  under  the  creative  hand  of 
Hugo,  there  leaped  into  life,  as  suddenly  as  the 
soldiery  of  Cadmus,  a  new  generation — a  race 
of  poets  that  were  virile  in  their  ardor,  intox- 
icated with  their  own  theories,  rich  in  ideas, 
opulent  in  fancies,  and  feverish  in  the  determi- 
nation to  turn  the  indigence  of  their  country's 
book  shelves  into  the  wealth  of  a  millionnaire. 
Among  them  no  one  was  more  resolute  than 
Gautier.  In  aid  of  the  cause  he  subscribed 


INTRODUCTION.  H 

page  after  page  of  luxuriant  prose,  and  line 
after  line  of  impeccable  verse.  His  ideas  were 
born  duchesses.  No  one  could  torment  a 
fancy  more  delicately  than  he;  he  had  the  gift 
of  adjective  ;  he  scented  a  new  one  afar  like  a 
truffle;  and  from  the  Morgue  of  the  dictionary 
he  dragged  forgotten  beauties.  He  dowered 
the  language  of  his  day  with  every  tint  of  dawn 
and  every  convulsion  of  sunset ;  he  invented 
metaphors  that  were  worth  a  king's  ransom, 
and  figures  of  speech  that  deserve  the  Prix 
Montyon.  Then,  reviewing  his  work,  he  for- 
mulated an  axiom  which  will  go  down  with  a 
nimbus  through  time:  Whomsoever  a  thought 
however  complex,  a  vision  however  apocalyp- 
tic, surprises  without  words  to  convey  it,  Ls  not 
a  writer.  The  inexpressible  does  not  exist. 

When  he  first  set  out  to  charm  that  gracious 
lady  whose  name  is  Fame,  he  was  as  fabu- 
lously handsome  as  a  Merovingian  prince.  He 
was  tall  and  robust ;  his  hair  was  a  wayward 
flood  ;  his  eyes  were  blue  and  victorious.  He 
was  the  image  of  Young  France.  His  strength 
was  proverbial ;  he  outdid  Dante  ;  he  swam 
from  Marseilles  to  the  Chateau  dTf,  and  then 
swam  back.  Had  it  been  necessary,  he  would 
have  breasted  the  Hellespont.  But  .of  that 
there  was  no  need.  There  were  hearts  nearer 
home  that  he  won  without  effort ;  women  fell 
in  love  with  him  at  once;  the  Muse  smiled,  and 


1 2  INTROD  UCTION. 

Glory  stretched  her  hand.  His  conquests  were 
so  numerous  that  to  give  an  exact  account  of 
them  the  historian  would  have  to  write  in 
Latin.  In  comparison  Mardoche  was  a  Puri- 
tan ;  and  yet,  through  a  charming  contradic- 
tion, no  one  has  ever  been  better  supplied  with 
beliefs:  he  had  no  less  than  three  hundred  and 
sixty-five,  one  for  every  day  in  the  calendar ; 
and  it  was  only  on  leap  year  that  he  allowed 
himself  for  twenty-four  hours  the  privilege  of 
believing  in  nothing  at  all. 

At  a  comparatively  early  age  he  was  sun- 
struck  by  Victor  Hugo.  To  him  Hugo  was 
Phoebus  indeed.  He  has  given  it  to  the  world 
that  when  he  was  first  brought  in  the  pres- 
ence, like  Esther  before  Ahasuerus,  he  almost 
swooned.  Envy  being  cheap  and  the  negation 
of  genius  easy,  the  incident  is  worth  noting; 
it  helps  to  an  understanding  of  the  man,  and  of 
the  poet  that  was  in  him.  Throughout  those 
riotous  days  he  was  Hugo's  henchman.  Of  the 
little  army  that  fought  for  him,  Gautier  was  the 
most  demoniac.  His  contempt  of  the  hum- 
drum, his  enthusiasm  for  the  untried,  for  Lib- 
erty in  Art,  for  Hugo,  was  resplendent  in  the 
fantasy  of  its  ornate  charm.  To  talk  poetry 
with  Hugo,  he  said,  is  like  talking  theology 
with  God.  He  did  everything  for  the  master. 
His  pen  was  a  scimitar  ;  his  ink,  Greek  fire  ; 
he  defended,  lauded,  and  worshiped.  And 


INTRODUCTION.  !^ 

when  years  later,  "so  many  that  the  head  he 
bowed  had  turned  to  gray,"  when  Hugo  came 
back  from  exile,  Gautier  hastened  with  a  greet- 
ing. "Yes,"  he  said  on  his  return,  "yes,  I 
really  think  he  remembered  me."  Hugo,  it 
may  be  noted,  rhymes  with  ego,  not  richly,  per- 
haps, but  well. 

Gautier  was  a  satrap  of  song:  as  such  his 
position  is  not  difficult  to  define.  Hugo  is  the 
voice  of  a  century;  DeMusset  the  sob;  Balzac 
the  echo ;  Baudelaire  the  sneer  ;  and  Gautier 
the  smile, — the  smileof  youth,  health,  and  good 
looks,  the  smile  of  one  who  held  aristocracy  to 
be  beauty  in  woman  and  intellect  in  man.  He 
had  little  in  common  with  the  lyric  agony  of 
De  Musset;  his  hand  was  not  large  enough  to 
wield  the  thunderbolts  which  Hugo  hurled;  he 
lacked  Baudelaire's  appreciation  of  shades  of 
leprous  brown;  and  Balzac's  stenographic  tal- 
ent was  unpossessed  by  him.  But  hisfacture 
is  irreproachable,  which  De  Musset's  is  not ; 
his  effects  are  never  unintentionally  grotesque, 
as  Hugo's  often  are;  his  notes  are  always  nat- 
ural, where  Baudelaire's  are  sometimes  forced; 
and,  being  a  poet,  it  was  easier  for  him  to  in- 
vent than  transcribe. 

Gautier  wrote  in  verse  before  he  discovered 
that  it  is  more  difficult  to  write  in  prose.  Then 
abandoning  one  Muse,  he  set  out  to  caress  the 
peplum  of  another.  In  this  commerce  he  pro- 


1 4  IN  TROD  UCTION. 

duced  "Mademoiselle  de  Maupin,"  and,  later, 
"Avatar."  Concerning  "Avatar"  little  need  be 
said  ;  the  reader  is  the  best  of  critics.  But  on 
the  subject  of  the  former  work,  a  momentary 
digression  may  perhaps  be  permitted. 

To  the  average  reader  "Mademoiselle  de 
Maupin  "  is  a  hymn  to  Love.  To  the  student 
it  is  the  account  of  a  chase  after  the  Ideal. 
Through  its  pages  whoso  listens  hears  a  strain 
fromFlaubert'simmortal  duo  between  Chimera 
and  the  Sphinx.  That  duo  in  which  the  crouch- 
ing beast  calls :  "  Ici,  Chimere,  arrete-toi,"  and 
the  Chimera,  unstayed  in  her  flight,  answers, 
"  Non :  jamais." 

The  Ideal,  truly,  is  intangible,  but  the  fact 
of  its  intangibility  can  hardly  be  said  to  make 
the  pursuit  other  than  meritorious.  Yet  be 
this  as  it  may,  there  are  many  accomplished 
gentlemen  who  have  thought  differently;  and 
in  this  instance,  at  least,  have  called  the  hunt 
immoral.  The  immorality  displayed  in  "  Made- 
moiselle de  Maupin  "  is  the  tormented  grace  of 
adolescence,  the  emotion  which  stirs  the  pulse 
of  every  youth  however  refined,  and  every 
maiden  however  pure.  It  represents  the  tur- 
bulence of  health,  the  love  of  beauty,  and  the 
unaffected  expression  of  a  sentiment  which 
while  perfectly  natural  has  the  misfortune  to 
shock  those  who  lack  the  ability  to  inspire  it 
in  another.  It  is  a  tableau  of  the  candors  and 


IN  TROD  UCTION.  \  5 

generous  dreams  that  reside  in  every  one  who 
prefers  the  beautiful  to  its  opposite.  As  such, 
perhaps,  it  is  immoral,  though  one  may  wonder 
in  what  the  criterion  consists;  and  it  may  not 
be  indecorous  to  note  that  they  who  declaim 
on  the  subject  are  sometimes  at  a  loss  for  a 
standard  or  an  instance  of  morality  in  nature. 
Besides,  Gautier  did  not  write  for  accomplished 
gentlemen,  noryet  for  littlegirlsinshort  frocks. 
He  wrote  for  poets  and  for  men.  And  where 
is  the  poet  who  would  not  envy  d'Albert,  and 
where  is  the  man  who  would  not  have  kissed 
the  fair  Madeleine  ?  For  my  part,  were  the 
permission  accorded  me,  I  know  of  nothing 
that  could  give  me  greater  pleasure.  No,  not 
even  a  conversation  with  Schopenhauer. 

But  to  preach  liberality  to  the  illiberal  is,  as 
we  all  know,  as  profitable  as  asking  alms  of 
statues.  Then,  too,  who  shall  question  taste  ? 
The  perfume  which  is  distressing  to  one  is  al- 
luring to  another.  The  concert  which  delights 
the  idler  is  painful  to  the  amateur.  The  secret 
of  never  displeasing  is  the  art  of  mediocrity. 
And  Gautier  alternately  charms  and  rebuffs. 
His  Muse  has  a  thousand  toilettes  ;  she  lives 
in  a  succession  of  masquerades.  At  times  she 
moves  in  a  minuet.  Again  she  comes  with  the 
breath  of  brooks  and  sorceries  of  spring;  now 
she  is  enveloped  in  the  incense  and  hallelujahs 
of  a  cathedral,  now  in  the  fireworks  and  frenzy 


1 6  INTRODUCTION. 

of  a  debauch;  to-day  a  princess,  yesterday  a 
vagrant,  to-morrow  a  wanton,  last  week  a  saint 
—  but  always  the  Muse. 

If  her  attitude  in  "Mademoiselle  deMaupin" 
may  be  considered  venturesome,  no  such  re- 
proach has  been  laid  at  the  door  of  "Avatar." 
There  the  heroine  is  endowed  with  a  purity  so 
tremulous  in  its  clairvoyance  that  the  Blessed 
Damozel  herself  might  have  envied  it,  and  not 
she  alone,  but  the 

.  .  .  five  handmaidens  whose  names 
Are  five  sweet  symphonies : 
Cecily,  Gertrude,  Magdalen, 
Margaret  and  Rosalys. 

Prascovie  Labinska  is  meet  to  be  reckoned 
with  such  as  they,  and  the  portrait  which 
Gautier  drew  of  her  could  have  been  signed  by 
no  one  else  save  perhaps  Guido  or  Carlo  Dolci. 
In  this  story  he  succeeded  in  what  few  have 
accomplished  before, — he  displayed  the  impal- 
pable on  paper,  a  dream  in  black  and  white. 
The  reader  assists  at  a  metamorphosis  more 
marvelous  than  any  Paracelsus  ever  devised. 
A  forenoon  of  Veronese  fades  as  in  a  magic 
lantern ;  in  its  place  comes  a  tableau  after 
Goya,  a  nightmare  of  the  Orient  in  modern 
guise,  a  picture  of  the  human  soul  fluttering 
as  might  a  bird  over  the  horrors  of  an  abyss. 
And  then,  at  once,  the  dawn. 

Gautier  had  a  taste  for  the  exotic,  and  he 


INTRODUCTION.  ij 

toyed  with  it  as  with  a  jewel.  His  knowledge 
was  something  wider  than  encyclopaedic ;  he 
was  familiar  with  the  odds  and  ends  of  learn- 
ing, the  remnants  and  misfits  of  erudition;  he 
knew  the  reason  of  things,  and  confused  many 
whose  business  in  life  was  to  seem  wise  without 
being  so.  In  latter  years  no  one  knew  when 
he  slept.  His  lamp  was  always  burning. 
When  he  rested  it  was  with  a  book.  One  day, 
so  runs  the  legend,1  he  happened  to  be  visiting 
at  a  country  house.  His  fellow-guests  were  ar- 
tists and  savants.  Near  the  house  was  a  pond 
stocked  with  immemorial  carp.  Somebody 
suggested  that  one  of  these  fish  might  be  appe- 
tizing for  breakfast.  Accordingly  a  carp  was 
caught  and  carried  to  the  kitchen.  Suddenly 
the  head  cook,  his  face  whiter  than  his  cap, 
and  followed  by  trembling  scullions,  appeared 
among  the  assembled  guests.  In  a  voice 
broken  by  emotion  he  announced  that  the  carp 
had  no  sooner  been  placed  in  the  pot  than  the 
most  heart-rending  cries  had  come  from  it. 
The  scullions  bore  witness  to  the  truth  of  this 
statement,  and  declared  that  they  would  rather 
resign  their  aprons  than  be  obliged  to  assist 
at  the  cooking  of  such  an  extraordinary  fish. 
"Extraordinary !  "  said  Gautier,"  not  at  all. 
All  fish  object  to  being  boiled  alive.  The  carp 
merely  happened  to  have  a  stronger  voice  than 
the  others." 

1  Thtophik  Gautier.     Emile  Bergerat.  •  Paris. 


1 8  INTROD  UCTION. 

At  this  remark  of  the  poet's,  the  savants 
were  vastly  amused.  Nothing,  they  said,  was 
better  established  than  that  fish  were  dumb. 
The  cook  evidently  had  been  mystified  or  de- 
ceived by  some  illusion  of  the  acoustics.  Be- 
sides, they  insisted,  how  can  fish  cry  out, — 
they  have  no  vocal  organs  ? 

"Forgive  me,"  said  Gautier,  "they  have." 
And  thereupon  he  gave  the  assembly  such  a 
lesson  in  ichthyology  that  it  seemed  as  though 
all  the  fish  of  the  rivers  and  the  oceans  pro- 
tested with  him  against  the  ignorance  of  man. 
He  dissected  and  anatomized  the  finest  fibres 
of  their  vocal  organs.  He  made  them  vibrate, 
sing,  cry,  and  murmur  according  to  their  joy  or 
pain.  He  unveiled  their  mysterious  lives,  their 
loves,  their  wars,  and  touching  at  last  on  the 
abominable  torture  which  is  inflicted  on  them 
when  they  are  cooked  alive,  he  pictured  it  in 
such  terms  that  Bergerat  says  even  the  scullions 
wept,  and  of  the  guests  not  one  could  be  in- 
duced to  touch  fish  for  over  a  week. 

The  next  day  one  of  the  erudites  who  had 
returned  to  Paris  wrote  to  Gautier :  "  I  have 
passed  the  night  in  verifying  your  assertions ; 
every  one  of  them  is  exact.  It  is  you  who  are 
the  savant  and  we  who  are  poets." 

It  was  this  readiness  that  he  brought  to  his 
work.  Wit  and  wisdom  ran  off  the  end  of 
his  pen,  and  in  the  running  assumed  such  per- 


INTRODUCTION.  1 9 

feet  attitudes  that  Balzac,  whose  own  phrases 
were  laborious  as  childbirth,  called  him  a  ma- 
gician, which  he  undoubtedly  was.  The  qual- 
ity of  his  style  has  been  rarely  questioned. 
Zola,  it  is  true,  has  characterized  it  as  tortured, 
and  were  it  not  malicious  to  wish  that  the  style 
of  that  Jupiter  Feuilletonant  could  be  put  on 
the  same  rack,  the  wish  most  assuredly  would 
be  expressed.  But  Zola  to  the  contrary,  Gau- 
tier  so  far  from  tormenting  his  style,  did  not 
even  polish  it.  The  secret  of  his  grace  and 
fluency  lay,  perhaps,  in  this.  His  mind  was  a 
kaleidoscope  of  fancies ;  he  had  but  to  shake 
it  and  an  alluring  combination  was  the  result. 
Moreover,  his  memory  was  like  a  vise.  It  was 
never  necessary  for  him  to  look  up  a  refer- 
ence ;  the  dictionary  was  a  relaxation  to  him ; 
and  when  he  wrote,  —  and  he  wrote  every- 
thing, from  an  epigram  to  a  ballet,  enough,  in 
fact,  to  fill  a  library,  —  the  operation  was  abso- 
lutely painless.  None  of  his  manuscripts  bear 
the  slightest  trace  of  revision,  of  erasure,  or, 
for  that  matter,  of  punctuation.  Bergerat  says 
that  after  an  interruption,  such  as  a  visit  for 
instance,  he  would  take  up  his  work  at  the 
place  he  left  off,  often  in  the  middle  of  a  word, 
without  so  much  as  refreshing  his  memory  by 
a  reading  of  the  sentence  that  preceded  it. 
He  wrote  a  sonnet  as  readily  as  an  acceptance 
to  a  dinner,  a  story  as  easily  as  were  he  copy- 


20  INTRODUCTION. 

ing  it.  He  wrote  an  acrostic  sonnet,  bout- 
rim'e  at  that  —  one  of  the  most  difficult  things 
in  verse  —  as  an  improvisation.  He  went  to 
Russia,  and  four  years  later,  without  a  note- 
book to  help  him,  wrote  a  description  of  what 
he  had  seen.  The  "  Capitaine  Fracasse,"  one 
of  his  chief  works,  a  story  of  sixteenth  century 
France,  in  which  there  is  not  an  anachronism 
of  language  or  of  detail,  was  written  at  the 
end  of  a  counter  in  a  publisher's  office,  without 
even  a  lexicon  at  hand,  amid  the  confusion  of 
a  large  establishment,  and  as  the  manuscript 
fell  from  him  it  was  carried  to  the  printer. 
When  the  printer  had  enough  for  the  day, 
Gautier  took  a  stroll  in  the  boulevard.  Cer- 
tainly he  was  a  magician. 

Beside  the  book  of  Russian  travels,  Gautier 
wrote  another  on  Spain.  It  was  alleged  that 
he  grazed  the  surface  of  things,  and  left  the 
backgrounds  unpenetrated.  "The'o,"  said  that 
delightful  Mme.  de  Girardin  one  evening,  "  are 
there  no  Russians  in  Russia,  no  Spaniards  in 
Spain  ? " 

At  this  Gautier  pretended  to  be  very  angry. 
"  Fiddlesticks  !  "  he  exclaimed,  or  rather  the 
Gallic  equivalent.  "Do  you  suppose  I  saw 
them  ?  In  St.  Petersburg  I  was  a  Russian  my- 
self, in  Madrid  I  was  as  thorough  a  Spaniard 
as  the  Cid  or  Don  Ruy  Gomez  de  Silva.  I 
no  sooner  put  my  foot  in  a  country  than  I 


INTRODUCTION.  2 1 

become  a  native,  I  think,  act,  and  see  precisely 
like  any  other  inhabitant.  In  Spain  I  would 
have  had  myself  run  through  and  through  in 
defense  of  any  one  of  a  dozen  different  local 
opinions,  no  matter  which,  provided  my  sword 
had  been  tempered  at  Toledo,  and  the  chal- 
lenge was  addressed  to  Don  Theophilo.  As 
to  Russian  customs,  I  adopted  them  at  once. 
I  adopted  them  as  a  matter  of  course ;  I  for- 
got all  others  that  differed.  To  me  they  seemed 
perfectly  natural.  Would  you  think  of  describ- 
ing the  form  of  a  cravat  in  a  land  where  every 
cravat  is  of  the  same  form  ?  No.  Well,  then, 
no  more  would  I.  Beside,  man  is  everywhere 
the  same.  In  every  latitude  he  eats  with  his 
mouth  and  grasps  with  his  fingers.  No  matter 
where  you  go  you  will  find  that  the  strong  over- 
come the  weak.  From  one  pole  to  the  other 
the  art  of  love  does  not  vary.  To  my  thinking, 
descriptions  of  habits  and  customs  are  not  worth 
the  stroke  of  a  pen  ;  personally,  I  care  as  much 
for  them  as  I  do  for  the  snows  of  yester-year. 
I  have  passed  my  life  in  a  pursuit  of  the  Beau- 
tiful, and  I  found  it  only  in  Nature  and  in  Art. 
Everywhere  and  always  man  is  ugly.  He 
spoils  creation.  His  sole  value  is  in  his  in- 
telligence. And  as  his  intelligence  is  manifest 
only  in  his  productions,  I  hold  but  to  them  ; 
the  secret  of  his  destinies  does  not  interest  me 
in  the  least.  The  one  thing  that  I  care  about 


22  INTRODUCTION. 

in  a  foreign  city  is,  therefore,  the  monuments, 
and  I  care  for  them  simply  because  they  con- 
vey the  collective  result  of  the  genius  of  the 
population.  If  the  population  be  brutal  and 
the  city  a  haunt  of  crime,  what  does  it  matter 
to  me  ?  All  I  ask  is  the  permission  to  admire 
the  edifices  without  being  assassinated.  As 
for  humanity  as  it  is  improperly  called,  there 
is  the  '  Gazette  des  Tribunaux,'  the  '  Newgate 
Calendar ; '  all  Balzac  is  in  it,  and  over  and 
above  Balzac  the  universal  history  of  that  mis- 
chievous ape  that  I  have  met  in  all  my  travels, 
and  who  peoples  the  world.  That  is  the  way 
it  is,  and  that  is  the  way  it  always  will  be.  It 
is  only  climates  that  differ,  climates,  thieves- 
slang,  and  the  uniform  of  the  police." 

After  this  tirade  it  is  probable  that  he 
shrugged  his  shoulders  and  repeated  the  favor- 
ite axiom  of  his  declining  years,  "  There  is  no 
use  in  anything  ;  and,  moreover,  there  is  noth- 
ing ;  yet  everything  happens,  but  to  me  it  is 
all  the  same."  An  axiom  which,  heard  in  con- 
junction with  the  foregoing  tirade,  might  be 
mistaken  for  the  purest  Leopardi.  But  Gau- 
tier  was  anything  but  a  miserabilist.  Indiffer- 
ence makes  one  good-natured.  In  his  youth 
he  was  too  magnificent  to  be  other  than  happy, 
and  in  his  old  age  too  sweet-tempered  to  be- 
lieve in  discontent. 

Such  change  as  there  was  in  his  disposition 


INTRODUCTION.  23 

was  that  which  is  the  outcome  of  Time.  As  a 
young  man  he  promenaded  the  boulevards  in 
wonderful  trousers,  transcendent  waistcoats, 
neckclothed  like  Brummel,  gazing  about  with 
conquering  eyes.  In  the  majestic  indolence  of 
later  years  he  looked  much  as  might  an  Asiatic 
potentate  grown  gray  and  grave.  Victory  had 
deserted  his  eyes,  and  in  them  had  come  a 
shadowy  nostalgia,  the  regret  of  unsailed  seas 
and  unexperienced  pleasures,  and  therewith  a 
reverie  so  feline  in  its  abstraction  that  one 
might  have  thought  him  constantly  following 
the  changes  of  some  unending  dream. 

And  that  dream  was,  of  course,  the  Beautiful. 
In  the  first  intoxication  of  romanticism  he 
caught  the  Muse  by  the  hair,  and  threw  her 
down  like  a  young  ruffian  felling  his  mistress ; 
he  was  vigorous  in  his  beliefs,  but  as  illusions 
left  him,  as  illusions  do,  he  intercepted  some 
knowledge  of  the  intangibility  of  the  Ideal, 
and  it  was  then  that  he  shrugged  his  shoulders. 
Enthusiasm  for  a  chimera  is  indeed  difficult  to 
prolong. 

The  story  of  the  "  Venus  of  Ille  "  is  by  an 
author  of  a  different  school.  Prosper  Me'rime'e 
was  in  a  certain  sense  even  more  erudite  than 
Gautier.  He  was  a  professional  archaeologist, 
an  historian  salaried  by  the  state,  &fumiste  of 
literature,  one  of  the  mandarins  of  the  Occi- 
dent —  that  is  to  say,  a  member  of  the  French 


24  INTRODUCTION-. 

Academy,  —  a  senator  to  boot,  and  at  Saint 
Cloud  and  the  Tuileries  the  modern  representa- 
tive of  the  jester  of  the  past.  Though  he  wore 
no  bells,  his  business  was  none  the  less  to 
amuse  the  court.  He  wrote  witty  little  come- 
dies, which  were  performed  by  titled  amateurs, 
and  to  the  empress  he  whispered  anecdotes 
behind  the  fan. 

His  lines  were  cast  in  pleasant  places.  In 
after-life  Gautier  had  to  trudge  through  jour- 
nalism, a  martyr  to  the  exigencies  of  the  daily 
press,  but  Merime'e  wore  a  braided  coat,  and 
drew  an  income  from  the  coffers  of  the  crown. 
He  was  rarely  gifted,  a  man  of  sound  learning, 
a  philologist  to  the  ends  of  his  gloves,  a  stu- 
dent in  the  true  acceptation  of  the  word,  and 
yet  one  who  not  from  modesty  but  diplomacy 
preferred  to  be  thought  a  dilettante.  He  did 
not  wish  to  seem  wiser  than  dukes  and  duch- 
esses. Throughout  his  literary  career  he  acted 
like  that  Englishman  who  refused  to  speak 
French  correctly  that  he  might  not  be  taken 
for  a  professor  of  languages.  He  wrote  a 
bundle  of  excellent  verse,  "  La  Guzla,"  which 
he  published  as  translations  from  the  Illyrian, 
and  which  were  gravely  commented  upon  by 
spectacled  Germans.  He  produced  a  volume 
of  plays,  which  he  gave  out  as  translations  from 
an  imaginary  Spanish  actress,  Clara  Gazul, 
whose  manuscripts  he  pretended  to  have  found 


INTRODUCTION.  2$ 

when  rummaging  in  the  Escurial.  The  plays 
were  strikingly  original,  nervous  in  movement, 
colorless  in  adjective,  unburdened  by  an  un- 
necessary word,  and  in  peculiar  contrast  to  the 
exuberance  and  fervor  of  the  day.  They  too 
were  gravely  commented  upon,  and  long  ar- 
ticles were  written  about  Clara  Gazul  and  the 
art  which  that  lady  displayed. 

Me'rimee  meanwhile  laughed  in  his  sleeve. 
Somebody,  Taine  perhaps,  has  said  that  his 
existence  was  dual.  When  the  Me'rime'e  whom 
the  world  knew  showed  himself  in  public,  the 
real  Merimee  stood  at  his  side,  and  with  an  air 
of  mockery  resignedly  watched  him  perform. 

The  Merimee  that  the  world  knew  was  a 
pale  impassible  man,  who  never  raised  his 
voice,  who  said  clever  things,  and  told  horrible 
stories  with  the  impersonal  unconcern  of  one 
describing  the  fair  weather  of  an  earlier  June. 
It  was  said  that  he  was  an  atheist,  or,  what  is 
worse,  a  materialist,  that  he  was  without  senti- 
ment, without  affection,  without  a  heart.  But 
after  the  posthumous  publication  of  his  "  Let- 
tres  a  une  Inconnue,"  it  was  discovered  that 
he  had  worn  a  mask,  it  was  found  that  he  had 
beliefs,  nay,  superstitions  even,  and  that  his 
heart  could  bleed  as  well  as  another.  The  pale 
impassible  erudite  disappeared,  and  in  his  place 
came  an  unknown  Merimee,  a  lover,  tender, 
delicate,  and  always  refined,  who  wrote  to  the 
Inconnue  lines  like  these  :  — 


26  INTRODUCTION. 

"It  is  so  long  since  I  heard  from  you  that 
I  had  begun  to  be  anxious.  Besides,  I  was  tor- 
mented with  a  presentiment  that  I  have  not 
dared  to  relate.  A  few  days  ago  I  went  with 
an  architect  to  the  Arenas  of  Nimes,  and  there, 
ten  paces  from  me,  I  noticed  a  charming  bird. 
It  was  a  trifle  larger  than  a  lark,  its  body  was 
the  color  of  flax,  and  its  wings  were  striated 
black,  white,  and  crimson.  It  was  perched  on 
a  cornice,  and  gazed  fixedly  at  me.  I  inter- 
rupted the  architect  to  ask  what  kind  of  bird 
it  was :  although  a  great  sportsman,  he  said 
that  never  before  had  he  seen  one  like  it.  I 
went  up  to  it,  but  it  did  not  attempt  to  fly  until 
I  was  near  enough  to  touch  it  with  my  hand. 
Then,  with  its  eyes  still  fixed  on  me,  it  flut- 
tered a  little  distance  away.  Wherever  I  went, 
it  followed  me.  The  next  day  I  returned  to  the 
Arenas,  and  found  the  bird  still  there.  I  had 
brought  some  bread  with  me,  but  it  would  not 
touch  it.  Thinking  from  the  form  of  its  beak 
that  it  might  prefer  insects,  I  threw  it  a  grass- 
hopper, but  it  paid  no  attention  to  it.  The 
foremost  ornithologist  of  the  town  told  me  that 
no  such  bird  as  I  described  had  ever  been  seen 
in  the  neighborhood.  Finally,  at  my  last  visit 
to  the  Arenas,  the  bird  followed  me  so  persist- 
ently that  it  even  came  after  me  into  a  dark 
passage  which  only  a  bat  would  have  entered. 
I  remembered  then  that  the  Duchess  of  Bucking- 


INTRO  D  UCTION.  2  7 

ham  saw  her  husband  in  the  form  of  a  bird  on 
the  day  that  he  was  assassinated,  and  at  once 
I  feared  that  you  had  died,  and  had  taken  that 
way  of  seeing  me.  In  spite  of  myself,  the  idea 
was  torment,  and  I  assure  you  I  was  delighted 
to  see  that  your  letter  bore  the  date  of  the  day 
on  which  I  first  saw  my  marvelous  bird." 

So  much  for  the  poet  that  the  world  did  not 
know. 

As  a  rule,  when  the  real  Merimee  showed 
himself  it  was  in  spheres  unfrequented  by 
fashion,  over  the  gourd  of  a  galley-slave  for  in- 
stance, in  a  nest  of  gitanas,  or  in  some  smug- 
gler's haunt.  Gautier,  it  may  be  remembered, 
discovered  Andalusia,  and  every  one  since  has 
wished  to  follow  in  his  footsteps.  The  journey 
can  be  made  in  different  ways.  The  pleasant- 
est,  perhaps,  is  by  means  of  that  enchanted  rug, 
the  imagination.  A  history  aiding,  one  or  two 
books  of  travel,  and  it  is  the  easiest  thing  in 
the  world  to  explore  the  entire  land  without 
so  much  as  leaving  one's  arm-chair.  The  trav- 
eler closes  his  eyes,  and  presto  !  the  Alham- 
bra,  the  Lion  Court,  the  Alcazar,  Cordova,  the 
ship  of  stone  which  is  called  Cadiz,  surge  in 
melting  beauty  before  him.  On  the  wings  of 
his  vagabond  fancy  he  can  float  from  Cartha- 
gena  to  Tyre  ;  he  can  see  the  Phoenicians  sail- 
ing in  their  purple  galleys  ;  he  can  hear  the 
tramp  of  Roman  soldiery  ;  he  can  scan  the  face 


2$  IXTEODUCTIOJtf- 

of  Caesar,  raiaus  and  blanched  by 

jl^lxjwifli^c:  -    IM* 

Vanda 

•         MBIT!       gf     IMC    J-J1      \\Mt 

Moorish  guitar.  Hie  ages  wffl  mncil  their  se- 
crets,, the  cities  dbeir  gore  and  their  charm, 
and  an  this  without  being  forced  to  ask  a  deaf 
a  cold  at 


and  equally  patriotic  fashion  is 


he  spoke  the  mfr  of  the  gypsies  and  die ; 

of  the  Catalans.     When,  therefore,  the  fancy 


nanner.    Few  wui  the  doors 
closed  to  Mm.     He  ate  an 


Gerjon  tended  the  flocks  of  the  Son;  with 
Mme.  de  Monrijo,  mother  of  the  empress  that 
was  to  be;  ; 
aside,  and  the 


INTRODUCTION.  29 

peasants  of  Ronda,  lounging  under  the  stars 
with  smugglers  and  highwaymen,  or  watching 
some  drama  of  jealousy,  that  jealousy  that 
spends  itself  not  in  a  scene,  but  in  a  murder. 
From  these  and  similar  excursions  he  brought 
back  the  portraits  that  fill  his  gallery.  Car- 
men, for  instance,  Columba,  and  Clemence. 
They  are  all  living,  not  one  of  them  has  stepped 
into  a  book  before,  and  yet  with  five  or  six 
strokes  of  the  pen  he  makes  the  reader  as  fa- 
miliar with  them  as  were  they  stock  characters 
of  fiction.  It  was  this  method  that  he  observed 
wheresoever  he  went,  and  as  he  was  a  great 
traveler  the  variety  of  his  types  is  noticeable. 

These  portraits  are  hung  in  the  plainest 
frames.  After  Gautier,  the  sobriety  of  his 
style  is  ascetic.  To  turn  from  "  Avatar  "  to  the 
"  Venus  of  Ille  "  is  like  passing  from  high  noon 
to  twilight.  The  action  in  both  is  as  sinewy  as 
it  is  dramatic  ;  so  far  as  the  mere  management 
is  concerned  one  is  at  a  loss  to  decide  which  is 
the  more  nervous ;  but  while  through  "  Avatar  " 
one  can  hear  Gautier's  voice,  see  his  ample 
gestures,  mark  the  forgetfulness  of  his  volubili- 
ties, and  feel  as  did  one  sit  with  him  hand  in 
hand  that  the  tale  is  told  with  really  personal 
sympathy,  one  looks  in  vain  through  the  "  Ve- 
nus of  Ille  "  for  the  faintest  trace  of  emotion. 

Me'rime'e  has  a  story  to  tell,  and  he  tells  it 
as  though  he  were  giving  evidence  before  a 


30  INTRODUCTION. 

grand  jury.  He  presents  facts,  not  hearsay ; 
each  word  of  his  testimony  is  relevant ;  he  is 
not  to  be  led  into  confusion  or  entangled  in 
contradictions.  He  is  logical,  precise,  plain- 
spoken,  and  undeclamatory.  A  perfect  witness 
indeed.  No  one  in  all  probability  will  ever  be 
able  to  write  as  richly  as  Gautier,  but  in  Meri- 
meVs  stories  may  be  discerned  the  model  of 
the  modern  novel  —  the  art  of  displaying  the 
documents  in  a  given  case  uninterruptedly,  one 
after  the  other  like  so  many  premises  with  a 
conclusion  for  climax.  Gautier  was  the  torch 
of  an  epoch,  Merime'e  the  rapier. 

EDGAR  SALTUS. 
NEW  YORK,  May  i,  1887. 


AVATAR. 


AVATAR. 

BY  THfiOPHILE  GAUTIER. 

I. 

No  one  could  understand  the  malady  which 
was  slowly  undermining  Octave  de  Saville. 
He  was  not  confined  to  his  bed  ;  his  ordinary 
existence  was  unchanged ;  no  complaint  fell 
from  his  lips ;  and  yet  it  was  none  the  less  evi- 
dent that  he  was  fading  away.  Questioned 
by  the  physicians  whom  the  solicitations  of  his 
friends  and  relations  forced  him  to  consult,  he 
could  mention  no  definite  suffering,  nor  could 
science  discover  an  alarming  symptom  :  the 
auscultation  of  the  chest  gave  out  a  favorable 
sound,  and  the  ear  applied  to  the  heart  de- 
tected scarcely  an  irregular  pulsation ;  he  had 
neither  cough  nor  fever,  but  life  ebbed  from 
him  through  one  of  those  invisible  rents  of 
which,  Terence  says,  man  is  full. 

Sometimes  a  strange  faintness  made  him 
white  as  marble,  for  a  few  moments  he  ap- 
peared lifeless,  then  the  pendulum,  no  longer 


34       TALES  BEFORE  SUPPER. 

stopped  by  the  mysterious  finger  which  had 
held  it,  resumed  its  sway,  and  Octave  awakened 
as  from  a  dream. 

He  had  been  sent  to  a  water-cure,  but  the 
thermal  nymphs  proved  powerless  to  help  him, 
and  a  journey  to  Naples  produced  no  better  re- 
sult. The  radiant  sun,  of  which  he  had  heard 
so  much,  was  to  him  as  black  as  Albert  Diirer 
has  engraved  it ;  the  bat  with  Melancholia  writ- 
ten on  its  wing  beat  the  dazzling  sky  with  its 
dusky  web,  and  flew  between  him  and  the  light ; 
on  the  quay  of  Mergellina,  where  the  half-clad 
lazzaroni  sun  themselves  till  their  skins  take 
on  the  hue  of  bronze,  he  had  felt  chilled  to  the 
heart.  So  returning  to  his  small  apartment 
in  the  Rue  Saint  -Lazare,  he  had  apparently 
resumed  his  former  habits. 

This  apartment  was  for  a  bachelor  most 
comfortably  furnished.  But  as  in  time  an  in- 
terior becomes  impressed  with  the  look  and 
•even  the  very  thought  of  its  inhabitant,  Oc- 
tave's home  had  little  by  little  grown  dull  and 
mournful ;  the  damask  curtains  had  faded  and 
admitted  but  a  gray  light ;  the  large  bunches 
of  flowers  were  withering  on  the  dingy  white 
of  the  carpet ;  the  gilt  frames  of  a  few  choice 
water-colors  and  sketches  had  slowly  reddened 
under  a  relentless  dust ;  a  discouraged  fire 
smoked  and  died  out  under  its  own  ashes; 
the  antique  buhl  clock,  inlaid  with  brass  and 


AVATAR.  35 

tortoise  shell,  withheld  the  noise  of  its  tick-tack, 
and  the  voice  of  the  dreary  hours  spoke  low 
as  one  does  in  a  sick-room  ;  the  doors  closed 
silently,  and  the  footfalls  of  rare  visitors  died 
away  on  the  thick  carpet ;  laughter  ceased  on 
penetrating  these  cold,  sombre  rooms,  wherein 
modern  luxury  was  omnipresent.  Octave's 
servant,  Jean,  a  duster  under  his  arm,  a  tray  in 
his  hand,  glided  about  like  a  shadow,  for,  un- 
consciously, affected  by  the  surrounding  gloom, 
he  had  ended  by  losing  his  natural  loquacity. 
Trophies,  such  as  boxing  gloves,  masks,  and 
foils,  hung  on  the  walls,  but  it  was  easy  to  see 
that  they  had  long  been  untouched ;  books 
were  tossed  carelessly  about,  as  if  Octave  had 
tried  to  lull  some  fixed  idea  by  mechanical 
reading.  An  unfinished  letter,  yellowed  with 
age,  seemed  to  have  been  waiting  its  conclu- 
sion for  months,  and  spread  itself  out  on  the 
table  in  silent  reproach.  Though  inhabited,  the 
apartment  appeared  deserted.  Life  was  ab- 
sent, and  on  entering  one  encountered  the 
chill  which  issues  from  a  tomb.  In  this  lugu- 
brious dwelling,  where  no  woman  ever  set  her 
foot,  Octave  was  more  at  his  ease  than  else- 
where ;  the  silence,  the  sadness,  and  the  neg- 
lect suited  him ;  the  joyous  tumult  of  life  dis- 
gusted him,  though  he  made  frequent  efforts  to 
join  in  it ;  but  as  he  returned  from  the  mas- 
querades, the  balls,  or  the  suppers  to  which  his 


36  TALES  BEFORE  SUPPER. 

friends  dragged  him,  gloomier  than  before,  he 
struggled  no  longer  against  his  mysterious 
pain,  and  let  the  days  slip  by  with  the  indif- 
ference of  a  man  who  expects  nothing  from  the 
morrow.  As  he  had  lost  faith  in  the  future  he 
made  no  plans,  and  having  tacitly  sent  in  his 
resignation  to  life,  he  was  awaiting  its  accept- 
ance. Nevertheless,  if  you  imagined  him  thin 
of  face,  with  an  earthy  complexion,  attenuated 
limbs,  and  a  wasted  appearance,  you  would  be 
much  mistaken  ;  a  dark  bruise  under  the  eye- 
lids, an  orange  shade  around  the  orbits,  a  hol- 
lowing of  the  temples  veined  with  blue,  were 
alone  observable.  Yet  his  eyes  were  soulless, 
without  trace  of  will,  hope,  or  desire.  This 
lifeless  gaze  in  such  a  young  face  formed  a 
strange  contrast,  and  produced  a  more  painful 
effect  than  the  emaciated  features  and  fevered 
expression  of  the  ordinary  invalid.  Before  his 
health  was  affected  in  this  way  Octave  had 
been  called  a  good-looking  fellow,  and  he  was 
so  still ;  thick,  wavy  black  hair  clustered  in  silky, 
lustrous  masses  at  his  temples ;  his  eyes  were 
large,  velvety,  and  deeply  blue,  fringed  with 
curved  lashes,  and  at  times  luminous  with  a 
liquid  fire ;  in  repose,  and  when  unanimated 
by  passion,  they  had  the  serene  look  which 
the  eyes  of  Orientals  wear  when,  after  smok- 
ing their  nargileh,  they  take  their  kief  at  the 
cafe*  doors  of  Smyrna  or  Constantinople.  His 


AVATAR.  37 

skin,  always  pale,  had  that  southern  tint  of  olive 
white  which  is  most  effective  by  gaslight ;  his 
hand  was  slender  and  delicate  ;  his  foot  narrow 
and  arched.  He  dressed  well,  without  being 
in  advance  of  the  fashion  or  behind  it,  and 
knew  perfectly  how  to  set  off  his  natural  at- 
tractions to  their  best  advantage.  Though 
without  the  pretensions  of  an  exquisite  or  a 
sportsman,  had  he  been  put  up  at  the  Jockey 
Club  he  would  not  have  been  blackballed. 

How  was  it,  then,  that  a  man,  young,  hand- 
some, rich,  with  every  incentive  to  happiness, 
should  be  thus  miserably  consuming  himself  ? 
The  reader  will  imagine  that  Octave  was  blasd, 
that  the  novels  of  the  day  had  filled  his  brain 
with  morbid  ideas,  that  he  had  no  beliefs,  that 
of  his  youth  and  fortune  squandered  in  dissi- 
pation nothing  remained  to  him  but  debts.  All 
these  suppositions  would  be  erroneous.  Octave 
had  seen  too  little  of  dissipation  to  be  tired 
of  it :  neither  splenetic,  romantic,  atheistic,  nor 
libertine,  his  life  had  been  that  of  the  average 
young  man,  a  commingling  of  study  and  relaxa- 
tion. In  the  morning,  lectures  at  the  Sorbonne 
claimed  his  attention,  and  in  the  evening,  he 
might  be  seen  stationed  on  the  staircase  of  the 
Opera  watching  the  tide  of  beauty  disperse. 
He  was  not  known  to  take  interest  in  either 
actress  or  duchess,  and  he  spent  his  income 
without  encroaching  on  the  principal,  —  his 


38  TALES  BEFORE  SUPPER. 

lawyer  respected  him !  In  brief,  he  was  ot 
an  equable  temperament,  incapable  of  jump- 
ing off  a  precipice,  or  setting  a  river  on  fire. 
The  cause  of  his  condition,  which  baffled  the 
skill  of  the  entire  faculty,  was  so  incredible  in 
nineteenth  century  Paris  that  we  must  leave  its 
narration  to  our  hero. 

As  the  ordinary  scientists  could  make  noth- 
ing of  this  strange  illness  (at  the  amphithea- 
tres of  anatomy  a  soul  has  yet  to  be  dissected), 
an  eccentric  physician  recently  returned  from 
India,  and  reputed  to  effect  marvelous  cures, 
was  consulted  as  a  last  resource. 

Octave,  foreseeing  a  superior  discernment 
capable  of  penetrating  his  secret,  seemed  to 
dread  the  doctor's  visit,  and  it  was  only  after 
repeated  entreaties  from  his  mother  that  he 
consented  to  receive  M.  Balthazar  Cherbon- 
neau.  When  the  physician  entered,  Octave  was 
stretched  on  a  sofa ;  his  head  was  propped  up 
by  a  cushion,  another  supported  his  elbow,  and 
a  third  covered  his  feet :  wrapped  in  the  soft 
and  supple  folds  of  a  Turkish  gown,  he  was 
reading,  or  rather  holding,  a  book,  for  his  eyes, 
though  fixed  on  a  page,  saw  nothing.  His  face 
was  colorless,  but,  as  has  been  hinted,  showed 
no  marked  alteration.  A  superficial  examina- 
tion would  not  have  disclosed  dangerous  symp- 
toms in  this  young  invalid,  on  whose  table, 
instead  of  the  pills,  vials,  potions,  and  other 


AVATAR.  39 

drugs  usual  in  such  cases,  stood  a  box  of 
cigars.  Though  slightly  drawn,  his  clear-cut 
features  had  lost  little  of  their  natural  charm, 
and  but  for  his  extreme  debility  and  the  irre- 
mediable despondency  of  his  eye  Octave  would 
have  appeared  in  a  normal  state  of  health. 

In  spite  of  his  apathy  Octave  was  struck 
by  the  physician's  fantastic  appearance.  M. 
Balthazar  Cherbonneau  seemed  as  though  he 
had  escaped  from  one  of  Hoffmann's  Tales, 
and  was  wandering  about  astounded  at  the 
reality  of  his  own  grotesqueness.  His  sun- 
burnt face  was  overhung  by  an  enormous  skull, 
which  loss  of  hair  made  appear  even  larger 
than  it  really  was.  The  bald  cranium,  polished 
as  ivory,  had  remained  white,  while  the  face, 
exposed  to  the  rays  of  the  sun,  had  taken  on 
the  color  of  old  oak  or  a  smoky  portrait.  Its 
cavities  and  projecting  bones  were  thrown  in 
such  bold  relief  that  their  slight  covering  of 
wrinkled  flesh  resembled  damp  parchment 
stretched  on  a  death's-head.  The  infrequent 
gray  hairs  which  still  lingered  on  the  back  of 
the  head  were  gathered  in  three  thin  locks, 
• — two  drawn  up  over  the  ears,  and  the  third, 
starting  from  the  nape  of  the  neck  and  end- 
ing abruptly  at  the  beginning  of  the  forehead, 
crowned  this  nut-cracker  countenance,  and 
evoked  unconscious  regrets  for  the  ancient 
peruque  or  the  modern  wig.  But  the  most 


40  TALES  BEFORE  SUPPER. 

extraordinary  thing  about  him  was  his  eyes. 
His  face,  wrinkled  with  age,  calcinated  by  in- 
candescent skies,  worn  with  vigils,  marked  in 
lines  more  closely  pressed  than  the  pages  of  a 
book,  with  the  wearisome  fatigues  of  life  and 
of  study,  was  illuminated  by  two  orbs  of  tur- 
quoise blue,  inconceivably  limpid,  fresh,  and 
youthful.  Sunken  in  sombre  sockets,  whose 
concentric  membranes  and  pink  edges  vaguely 
recalled  the  dilating  and  contracting  pupils 
of  an  owl,  they  gleamed  like  two  blue  stars, 
and  made  one  suspect  that,  aided  by  some 
witchery  of  the  Brahman s,  the  physician  had 
stolen  the  eyes  of  a  child,  and  transplanted 
them  to  his  own  cadaverous  visage.  Octave's 
eyes  were  those  of  an  octogenarian,  but  Cher- 
bonneau's  blazed  with  the  fire  of  youth.  He 
was  dressed  in  the  physician's  ordinary  garb, 
a  suit  of  black  with  silk  waistcoat  of  the  same 
color,  while  his  shirt-front  was  ornamented  with 
a  large  diamond,  the  present  of  some  rajah  or 
nabob.  But,  as  if  suspended  from  a  peg,  his 
clothes  hung  on  him  in  perpendicular  folds, 
broken,  when  he  was  seated,  into  sharp  angles 
by  his  limbs.  India's  devouring  sun  could 
hardly  have  been  the  only  cause  of  the  phe- 
nomenal emaciation  which  he  exhibited.  It 
may  be  that  in  view  of  some  initiation  he  had 
undergone  the  prolonged  fasts  of  the  fakirs, 
and  had  been  extended  by  the  yogis  between 


AVATAR.  41 

four  glowing  braziers  on  the  skin  of  a  gazelle. 
His  attenuation,  however,  was  not  the  outcome 
of  debility.  His  fleshless  knuckles  moved 
noiselessly,  as  were  they  held  together  by 
strong  ligaments  stretched  on  the  hands  like 
the  strings  of  a  violin. 

With  a  stiff  movement  of  the  elbows  which 
resembled  the  folding  of  a  yard-measure,  the 
physician  seated  himself  in  the  chair  by  the 
sofa  to  which  Octave  motioned  him,  betraying, 
as  he  did  so,  an  inveterate  habit  of  squatting 
on  a  mat.  So  placed,  M.  Cherbonneau's  back 
was  turned  to  the  light  which  fell  directly  on 
the  face  of  his  patient,  a  situation  most  favora- 
ble to  examination,  and  one  usually  chosen  by 
observers  more  desirous  of  seeing  than  of  be- 
ing seen.  Though  the  physician's  face  was 
hidden  in  shadow,  and  the  top  of  his  cra- 
nium, round  and  polished  as  a  gigantic  ostrich- 
egg,  alone  caught  a  ray  of  light,  Octave  dis- 
cerned the  scintillation  of  his  singular  blue 
pupils,  which  appeared  endowed  with  the  glim- 
mer peculiar  to  phosphorescent  bodies,  and 
emitted  a  clear,  sharp  beam  which  penetrated 
the  invalid's  chest  with  the  hot,  pricking  sen- 
sation which  an  emetic  causes. 

"Well,  sir,"  said  the  physician  after  a  mo- 
ment's silence,  during  which  he  seemed  to  sum 
up  the  symptoms  noted  in  his  rapid  inspection, 
"  I  see  already  that  yours  is  not  a  case  of  every- 


42  TALES  BEFORE  SUPPER. 

day  pathology.  You  have  none  of  the  well- 
known  signs  of  catalogued  maladies  which  the 
physician  cures  or  aggravates  ;  and  I  shall  not 
ask  you  for  paper,  or  write  from  the  codex  a 
soothing  prescription  with  a  hieroglyphical 
signature  for  tail-piece,  or  trouble  your  servant 
to  go  to  the  corner  drug-shop."  Octave  smiled 
faintly  as  if  to  thank  M.  Cherbonneau  for 
sparing  him  useless  and  disagreeable  remedies. 

"  But,"  resumed  the  physician,  "  do  not  re- 
joice too  quickly ;  because  you  have  neither 
heart-disease,  consumption,  spinal  complaint, 
softening  of  the  brain,  typhoid  or  nervous  fever, 
it  does  not  follow  that  you  are  in  good  health. 
Give  me  your  hand." 

Thinking  M.  Cherbonneau  wished  to  count 
his  pulse,  and  expecting  to  see  him  take  out 
his  watch  for  that  purpose,  Octave  drew  back 
the  sleeve  of  his  dressing-gown,  and  baring 
his  wrist  extended  it  mechanically.  Into  his 
yellow  paw,  of  which  the  bony  fingers  resem- 
bled the  claws  of  a  crab,  M.  Cherbonneau 
took  the  young  man's  moist,  veined  hand,  but 
instead  of  feeling  with  his  thumb  for  that  un- 
even pulsation  which  indicates  that  the  ma- 
chinery of  man  is  out  of  order,  he  pressed  and 
kneaded  it  as  if  to  put  himself  in  magnetic 
communication  with  his  subject. 

Though  a  skeptic  in  medicine,  Octave  could 
not  restrain  a  sort  of  anxious  emotion.  The 


AVATAR.  43 

blood  receded  from  his  temples,  and  it  seemed 
to  him  as  if  the  physician's  pressure  was  sub- 
tracting his  very  soul. 

"  My  dear  sir,"  M.  Cherbonneau  said,  as  he 
dropped  Octave's  hand,  "  your  condition  is  far 
graver  than  you  think  ;  the  old-fashioned  treat- 
ments that  are  in  vogue  in  Europe  cannot  aid 
you  in  the  least.  You  have  lost  the  will  to 
live ;  insensibly,  your  soul  is  slipping  from 
your  body ;  yet  there  is  no  trace  of  hypochon- 
dria, lymphomania,  nor  yet  of  melancholy  and 
suicidal  preoccupation.  No !  There  is  nothing 
of  that.  Strange  as  it  may  appear,  you  might, 
did  I  not  prevent  you,  succumb  suddenly,  with- 
out a  single  noticeable  rupture  internal  or  ex- 
ternal. It  is  high  time  that  I  was  summoned, 
for  your  spirit  holds  to  your  body  merely  by  a 
thread  ;  we  will  make  a  good  strong  knot  of  it, 
however."  And  therewith  the  doctor  rubbed  his 
hands  blithesomely  together,  and  smiled  in  a 
manner  that  sent  the  wrinkles  eddying  through 
the  thousand  lines  of  his  weather-worn  face. 

"  Monsieur  Cherbonneau,"  Octave  answered, 
"  I  do  not  know  whether  you  will  succeed,  and 
as  to  that  I  care  very  little  ;  but  I  must  admit 
that  you  have  gauged  the  cause  of  my  myste- 
rious affliction  in  the  exactest  and  most  pene- 
trating manner.  I  feel  as  though  I  had  be- 
come permeable,  as  though  I  were  losing  my 
ego  as  water  runs  through  a  sieve.  I  am 


44  TALES  BEFORE  SUPPER. 

melting  away  into  the  universal  essence,  and 
it  is  with  difficulty  that  I  distinguish  my  own 
identity  from  the  surroundings  into  which  it  is 
being  fused.  Life,  of  which,  as  well  as  may 
be,  I  perform  the  daily  pantomime  to  avoid 
grieving  my  relatives  and  friends,  seems  so  far 
from  me  that  there  are  moments  when  I  feel 
as  if  I  had  already  left  this  mortal  sphere. 
Actuated  by  habitual  motives  whose  mechan- 
ical impulse  still  lingers,  I  come  and  go,  but 
without  participating  in  my  own  actions.  At 
the  usual  hours  I  seat  myself  at  table,  and  ap- 
pear to  eat  and  drink ;  but  the  most  highly  sea- 
soned dishes  and  the  strongest  wines  have  no 
flavor  to  me.  The  sunshine  is  pale  as  moon- 
light, and  candle-flames  are  dark.  I  shiver  in 
midsummer.  Often  an  intense  silence  op- 
presses me,  much  as  though  my  heart  had 
ceased  beating,  and  the  wheelwork  was  clogged 
by  some  unknown  cause.  If  the  dead  are  sen- 
tient, my  condition  must  resemble  theirs." 

"  You  have,"  replied  the  physician,  "  a 
chronic  inability  to  live,  an  entirely  moral 
disease,  and  one  more  frequent  than  is  sup- 
posed. Thought  is  a  force  which  can  kill  as 
surely  as  electricity  or  prussic  acid,  though  the 
signs  of  its  ravages  cannot  be  grasped  by  the 
means  of  such  analysis  as  is  at  the  disposal  of 
vulgar  science.  What  sorrow  has  set  its  fangs 
in  your  heart  ?  From  what  secretly  ambitious 


AVATAR.  45 

height  have  you  fallen  crushed  and  broken  ? 
On  what  despair  do  you  muse  in  your  immo- 
bility? Is  it  the  thirst  for  power  which  tor- 
ments you  ?  Have  you  voluntarily  renounced 
an  aim  placed  too  high  for  human  attainment  ? 
You  are  very  young  for  that.  May  it  be  that 
a  woman  has  betrayed  you  ?  " 

"  No,  doctor,"  continued  Octave ;  "  I  have 
not  even  enjoyed  that  happiness." 

"  And  yet,"  continued  M.  Balthazar  Cherbon- 
neau,  "  in  your  dull  eyes,  in  the  listless  attitude 
of  your  body,  in  the  lifeless  tones  of  your  voice, 
I  read,  as  plainly  as  if  it  were  stamped  in  gold 
letters  on  a  morocco  binding,  the  title  of  one 
of  Shakespeare's  plays." 

"  And  what  is  this  play  which  I  unconsciously 
translate  ?  "  asked  Octave,  whose  curiosity  was 
aroused  in  spite  of  himself. 

"  Love's  Labor 's  Lost,"  continued  the  doctor, 
with  a  purity  of  accent  which  betrayed  a  long 
residence  in  the  English  colonies  of  India. 

Octave  did  not  answer ;  a  slight  blush  red- 
dened his  cheeks,  and  to  cover  his  embarrass- 
ment he  toyed  with  the  tassel  of  his  girdle. 
The  physician  crossed  one  leg  over  the  other, 
producing  the  effect  of  the  crossbones  carved 
on  tombs,  and  clasped  his  foot  in  his  hand  in 
Oriental  fashion.  His  blue  eyes  gazed  into 
Octave's  with  a  look  at  once  soft  and  imperious. 

"  Come,  come,"  said  M.  Balthazar  Cherbon- 


46  TALES  BEFORE  SUPPER. 

neau,  "  confide  in  me  ;  souls  are  my  specialty ; 
you  are  my  patient ;  and,  like  the  Catholic 
priest  to  the  penitent,  I  ask  for  a  complete  con- 
fession, and  you  can  make  it  without  kneeling." 

"  What  good  would  it  do  ?  Supposing  that 
you  have  divined  correctly,  the  telling  of  my 
affliction  would  not  relieve  it.  My  sorrow  is 
dumb.  No  earthly  power,  not  even  yours,  can 
cure  me." 

"  Perhaps,"  said  the  physician,  settling  him- 
self more  comfortably  in  his  arm-chair,  as  if 
preparing  to  listen  to  a  long  confidence. 

"  I  do  not  wish  you,"  continued  Octave, 
"  to  accuse  me  of  a  puerile  obstinacy,  nor  to 
give  you  by  my  silence  a  pretext  for  washing 
your  hands  of  my  death ;  so,  since  you  ask  it, 
I  will  tell  you  my  history ;  you  have  guessed 
the  main  point,  I  need  not  spare  the  details. 
Do  not  expect  anything  singular  or  romantic. 
It  is  a  very  simple  adventure,  very  common- 
place, very  threadbare ;  but,  as  sings  Henri 
Heine,  whoso  meets  it  finds  it  ever  new, 
though  the  heart  be  broken  every  time.  Real- 
ly, I  am  ashamed  to  relate  such  an  ordinary 
tale  to  a  man  who  has  lived  in  the  most  fab- 
ulous and  chimerical  countries." 

"  Do  not  fear,"  said  the  physician,  smiling, 
"  it  is  only  the  commonplace  which  can  be  ex- 
traordinary to  me." 

"  Well,  doctor,  love  is  killing  me." 


AVATAR.  47 


II. 

"  TOWARDS  the  end  of  the  summer  of  184- 
I  found  myself  in  Florence,  at  the  best  sea- 
son for  seeing  that  city.  I  had  time,  money, 
excellent  letters  of  introduction,  and  I  was  a 
good-humored  youth,  only  too  ready  to  be 
amused.  I  installed  myself  on  the  Lung'- 
Arno,  hired  a  trap,  and  drifted  into  that  easy 
Florentine  life  which  is  so  full  of  charm  to  the 
stranger.  In  the  morning  I  visited  some 
church,  palace,  or  gallery,  quite  leisurely,  with- 
out hurry,  as  I  did  not  wish  to  give  myself 
that  indigestion  of  master  -  pieces  which  dis- 
gusts the  too  hasty  tourist  with  art.  One 
morning  I  examined  the  bronze  doors  of  the 
Baptistery ;  another,  the  Perseus  of  Benvenuto 
under  the  Loggia  dei  Lanzi,  the  portrait  of 
Fornarina,  or  Canova's  Venus  in  the  Pitti  Pal- 
ace, but  never  more  than  one  object  at  a 
time.  Then  I  breakfasted  off  a  cup  of  iced 
coffee  at  the  Cafe  Doney,  smoked  a  cigar  or 
two,  glanced  at  the  papers,  and,  my  bottonhole 
decorated,  willingly  or  not,  by  one  of  the  pretty 
flower-girls  who  in  their  huge  straw  hats  stand 
before  the  cafe,  I  returned  home  for  a  siesta. 
At  three  o'clock  the  carriage  came  to  take  me 
to  the  Cascine.  The  Cascine  is  to  Florence 
what  the  Bois  de  Boulogne  is  to  Paris,  with 


48  TALES  BEFORE  SUPPER. 

this  difference,  that  every  one  is  acquainted, 
and  the  square  is  an  open-air  drawing-room, 
where  chairs  are  replaced  by  the  half  circle  of 
carriages.  The  women,  in  full  dress,  recline  on 
the  cushions,  and  receive  the  visits  of  lovers, 
friends,  exquisites,  and  attaches,  who  pose,  hat 
in  hand,  at  the  carriage-steps.  But  you  know 
all  this  as  well  as  I.  There  plans  for  the 
evening  are  made,  meetings  are  arranged, 
answers  are  given,  invitations  accepted ;  it  is 
like  a  Pleasure  Exchange  open  from  three  to 
five  in  the  shade  of  beautiful  trees,  under  the 
world's  fairest  sky.  It  is  incumbent  on  every 
one  of  the  least  consequence  to  be  seen  there 
daily,  and  I  was  careful  not  to  miss  it.  In  the 
evening  I  made  a  visit  or  two,  or  if  the  prima 
donna  was  an  attraction  I  went  to  the  Pergola. 
"In  this  way  I  spent  one  of  the  happiest 
months  of  my  life ;  but  my  good  fortune  was 
not  destined  to  last.  One  day  a  magnificent 
open  carriage  made  its  first  appearance  at 
the  Cascine.  It  was  one  of  Laurenzi's  chef- 
d'&uvres,  and  a  superb  example  of  Viennese 
manufacture  ;  glittering  with  varnish,  and  bla- 
zoned with  an  almost  royal  coat  of  arms,  there 
was  harnessed  to  it  as  handsome  a  pair  of 
horses  as  ever  paraded  in  Hyde  Park,  or  drew 
up  before  Saint  James'  Palace  during  a  draw- 
ing-room ;  added  to  this,  it  was  driven  a  la  Dau- 
mont  in  the  correctest  style  by  a  youthful  pos- 


AVATAR.  49 

tilion  in  green  livery  and  white  knee-breeches. 
The  brass  on  the  harness,  the  boxes  of  the 
wheels,  the  door-handles,  all  shone  like  gold 
and  sparkled  in  the  sun ;  every  eye  followed 
this  splendid  equipage,  which,  after  making  a 
curve  as  regular  as  if  traced  by  a  compass, 
drew  up  near  the  other  vehicles.  The  car- 
riage, you  may  be  sure,  was  not  empty  ;  but  in 
the  speed  with  which  it  passed  nothing  had 
been  distinguished  but  the  tip  of  a  slipper  ex- 
tended on  a  cushion,  a  large  fold  of  shawl,  and 
the  disk  of  a  parasol  fringed  with  white  silk. 
The  parasol  was  now  closed,  and  a  woman  of 
incomparable  beauty  was  revealed.  Being  on 
horseback,  I  was  able  to  approach  near  enough 
to  lose  no  detail  of  this  poem  in  flesh.  The 
fair  stranger,  with  the  assurance  of  a  perfect 
blonde,  wore  a  gown  of  that  silvery  Nile  green 
which  makes  any  woman  whose  skin  is  not 
irreproachable  look  as  dark  as  that  of  a  mole. 
A  beautiful  shawl  of  white  cr6pe  de  Chine, 
thick  with  embroidery  of  the  same  color,  en- 
veloped her  like  a  Phidian  statue  in  its  cling- 
ing, rumpled  drapery,  while  a  bonnet  of  fine 
Florentine  straw,  covered  with  forget-me-nots 
and  delicate  aquatic  plants  of  slender  glaucous 
leaves,  formed  an  aureole  about  her  face.  Her 
only  ornament  was  a  gold  lizard  studded  with 
turquoises,  which  encircled  the  arm  that  held 
the  parasol. 


50  TALES  BEFORE  SUPPER. 

"  Forgive  me,  doctor,  this  fashion-plate  de- 
scription. To  a  lover  these  trivialities  are  of 
enormous  importance.  Thick,  rippling  golden 
hair  lay  like  undulations  of  light  in  luxuriant 
waves  upon  her  brow,  which  itself  was  smooth 
and  white  as  the  new-fallen  snow  on  the  high- 
est Alpine  peak;  long  lashes,  fine  as  the 
threads  of  gold  radiating  from  the  angel  heads 
in  the  miniatures  of  the  Middle  Ages,  veiled 
her  eyes,  whose  pupils  had  the  bluish-green 
light  of  a  sun-pierced  glacier.  Her  divinely 
modeled  mouth  glowed  with  the  carmine  of  a 
sea-shell,  and  her  cheeks  resembled  white  roses 
flushed  by  the  wooing  of  the  nightingale  or  the 
kiss  of  the  butterfly ;  no  mortal  brush  could 
copy  the  suavity,  the  fairness,  and  the  immate- 
rial transparency  of  this  complexion,  of  which 
the  tints  seemed  hardly  due  to  the  blood  which 
colors  our  coarser  skins ;  the  first  blush  of 
morn  on  the  ridge  of  the  Sierra  Nevada,  the 
rose-tipped  petals  of  a  camellia,  Parian  marble 
seen  through  a  pink  gauze  veil,  can  alone  give 
of  it  a  vague  idea.  The  creamy  iridescence  of 
the  neck,  visible  between  the  shawl  and  the 
bonnet  strings,  gleamed  with  opalescent  reflec- 
tions. It  was  the  Venetian  coloring,  and  not 
the  features,  that  arrested  attention,  though  the 
latter  were  as  clear  cut  and  exquisite  as  the 
profile  of  an  antique  cameo.  When  I  saw  her, 
I  forgot  my  past  loves,  as  Romeo  at  sight  of 


AVATAR.  51 

Juliet  forgot  Rosalind.  The  pages  of  my  heart 
became  blank  :  every  name,  every  memory,  was 
obliterated.  I  wondered  how  the  common- 
place love  affairs  which  few  young  men  escape 
had  ever  had  any  attraction  for  me,  and  I  re- 
proached myself  for  them  as  if  they  had  been 
culpable  infidelities.  A  new  life  dated  for  me 
from  this  fatal  encounter. 

"  Presently  the  carriage  left  the  Cascine  and 
took  the  road  back  to  town.  When  the  daz- 
zling vision  had  vanished  I  brought  my  horse 
alongside  that  of  an  amiable  young  Russian,  a 
great  lover  of  watering  places,  a  man  who  had 
frequented  all  the  cosmopolitan  drawing-rooms 
of  Europe,  and  who  was  thoroughly  conversant 
with  the  traveling  contingent  of  high  life ;  I 
turned  the  conversation  on  the  fair  stranger, 
and  learned  that  she  was  known  as  the  Countess 
Prascovie  Labinska,  a  Lithuanian  of  illustrious 
birth  and  great  fortune,  whose  husband  had  been 
fighting  for  two  years  in  the  Caucasian  war. 

"  It  is  needless  to  tell  you  what  diplomacy 
I  used  to  be  received  by  the  countess,  who,  in 
view  of  her  husband's  absence,  was  necessarily 
circumspect  in  her  receptions.  At  last,  how- 
ever, I  was  admitted ;  two  dowager  princesses 
and  four  aged  baronesses  answering  for  me  on 
their  ancient  virtue. 

"  The  Countess  Labinska  had  taken,  a  mile 
or  so  from  Florence,  a  magnificent  villa,  a  for- 


52  TALES  BEFORE  SUPPER. 

mer  belonging  of  the  Salviati  family,  and  in  a 
short  space  of  time  had  filled  the  mediaeval 
manor  with  every  modern  comfort  without  in 
the  least  disturbing  its  severe  beauty  and  serious 
elegance.  Heavy  blazoned  portieres  were  in 
fit  keeping  with  the  vaulted  arches  from  which 
they  fell ;  the  easy-chairs  and  other  furniture 
of  quaint  and  curious  shapes  harmonized  with 
the  sombre  wainscoted  walls  and  the  frescoes 
dulled  and  faded  to  the  hues  of  old  tapestry  ; 
and  through  it  all  there  was  not  a  note  that 
jarred.  The  present  did  not  clash  with  the 
past.  The  countess  was  so  naturally  the  cha- 
telaine that  the  old  palace  seemed  built  as  her 
appropriate  setting. 

"  Fascinated  as  I  had  been  by  the  countess' 
radiant  beauty,  at  the  end  of  several  visits  I 
was  yet  more  charmed  by  her  brilliant  and 
subtle  mind.  When  the  conversation  was  of 
interest,  her  soul  shone  luminous  in  her  eyes, 
the  pallor  of  her  cheek  glowed  with  an  inner 
flame  as  does .  a  lamp  of  alabaster :  the  phos- 
phorescent scintillations,  the  quivering  of  light 
of  which  Dante  speaks  in  his  description  of  the 
splendors  of  Paradise,  were  illustrated  in  her 
appearance,  as  who  should  say  an  angel  thrown 
in  bright  relief  against  a  sun.  I  stood  bewil- 
dered, stupefied,  and  ecstatic.  Lost  in  contem- 
plation of  her  beauty,  enchanted  by  the  celes- 
tial tones  of  her  voice,  which  made  of  every 


AVATAR.  53 

sentence  ineffable  music,  I  stammered,  when 
obliged  to  speak,  a  few  incoherent  words,  which 
must  have  given  her  a  poor  idea  of  my  intelli- 
gence, and  sometimes  at  certain  phrases  which 
denoted  on  my  part  either  great  embarrass- 
ment or  incurable  imbecility  an  imperceptible 
smile  of  friendly  irony  danced  like  a  rose-col- 
ored ripple  over  her  charming  lips. 

"  Still  I  had  not  told  my  love,  for  in  her 
presence  I  was  without  thought,  strength,  or 
courage ;  only  my  heart  throbbed  as  would  it 
break  its  bonds  and  fling  itself  at  the  knees  of 
its  sovereign.  Twenty  times  I  had  determined 
to  explain  myself,  but  an  insurmountable  timid- 
ity restrained  me  ;  the  least  look  of  coldness 
or  reserve  from  the  countess  threw  me  into  a 
deathly  trance  comparable  to  that  of  the  con- 
demned who,  bowed  on  the  block,  await  the 
stroke  of  the  axe  that  is  to  sever  the  head  from 
the  body.  I  was  strangled  by  nervous  contrac- 
tions ;  I  was  bathed  in  an  icy  perspiration.  I 
reddened,  I  grew  pale,  and  without  having 
dared  to  speak  I  came  away,  finding  the  door 
with  difficulty,  and  staggering  down  the  steps 
of  the  house  like  a  drunkard.  Once  outside 
I  came  to  my  senses,  and  threw  to  the  wind 
the  most  inflamed  dithyrambs.  I  addressed  to 
my  absent  idol  a  thousand  declarations  of  an 
irresistible  eloquence.  In  these  mute  apostro- 
phes I  equaled  Love's  greatest  poets.  The 


54  TALES  BEFORE  SUPPER. 

vertiginous  perfume  of  the  Orient,  the  poetry 
of  Solomon's  Song  of  Songs,  hallucinated  with 
hashish,  the  platonic  subtleties  and  ethereal 
delicacy  of  Petrarch's  sonnets,  the  nervous  and 
delirious  sensibility  of  Heine's  '  Intermezzo,' 
could  not  compare  with  the  exhaustless  effu- 
sions of  the  soul  in  which  my  life  wasted  itself 
away.  At  the  end  of  each  monologue  it  seemed 
to  me  that  the  countess,  vanquished,  at  last, 
must  descend  from  the  heavens  to  my  heart, 
and  frequently  I  clasped  my  arms  to  my  bosom, 
thinking  to  enfold  her  in  them. 

"  I  was  so  completely  possessed  that  I  spent 
hours  in  murmuring  like  a  litany  of  love  the 
two  words,  —  Prascovie  Labinska  ;  and  in 
these  syllables,  dropped  slowly  like  pearls,  or 
repeated  with  the  feverish  volubility  of  a  dev- 
otee exalted  by  prayer,  I  found  an  indefin- 
able charm.  Then  again,  I  wrote  the  adored 
name  on  the  finest  parchment,  illuminating  it 
like  a  mediaeval  manuscript  with  flowered  de- 
signs and  traceries  of  azure  and  gold.  In  this 
work  of  pathetic  minuteness  and  puerile  per- 
fection I  passed  the  long  hours  which  sepa- 
rated my  visits  to  the  countess.  I  could  not 
read  or  otherwise  occupy  myself.  Nothing  but 
Prascovie  interested  me,  and  even  my  letters 
from  France  lay  unopened.  I  made  repeated 
efforts  to  overcome  this  condition  ;  I  tried  to  re- 
call the  axioms  of  seduction  accepted  by  young 


AVATAR.  55 

men,  the  stratagems  used  by  the  Valmonts  of 
the  Cafe  de  Paris  and  the  Don  Juans  of  the 
Jockey  Club ;  but  to  execute  them  my  heart 
failed  me,  and  I  regretted  that  I  had  not,  like 
Stendhal's  Julien  Sorel,  a  package  of  progres- 
sive epistles  which  I  could  copy  and  send  to 
the  countess.  Unfortunately,  I  could  only  sur- 
render myself,  without  the  power  to  ask  a  re- 
turn, without  even  a  hope  in  the  future  ;  indeed, 
in  my  most  audacious  dreams  I  hardly  dared 
touch  with  my  lips  the  tips  of  Prascovie's  rosy 
fingers.  A  fifteenth-century  novice  prostrate 
on  the  steps  of  an  altar,  a  chevalier  kneeling  in 
his  rigid  armor,  could  not  have  had  a  more 
self-annihilating  adoration  for  the  Virgin." 

M.  Balthazar  Cherbonneau  had  listened  to 
Octave  with  profound  attention  ;  for  to  him  the 
young  man's  story  was  not  merely  a  tale  of 
romance,  and  he  murmured,  during  a  pause  in 
the  narrative,  as  if  to  himself,  "Yes,  that  is 
certainly  a  diagnostic  of  love,  a  curious  mal- 
ady which  I  have  encountered  but  once, — at 
Chandernagore,  —  in  a  young  Pariah  in  love 
with  a  Brahman  ;  it  killed  her,  poor  girl,  but 
she  was  a  savage ;  you,  M.  Octave,  you  are  a 
civilized  being,  and  we  will  cure  you."  This 
parenthesis  concluded,  he  motioned  M.  de  Sa- 
ville  to  continue ;  and,  doubling  back  his  leg 
to  the  thigh,  like  the  articulated  limb  of  a 
grasshopper,  so  as  to  support  his  chin  on  his 


56  TALES  BEFORE  SUPPER. 

knee,  he  settled  himself  in  this  position,  impos- 
sible to  any  one  else,  but  which  to  him  ap- 
peared very  restful. 

"  I  do  not  want  to  bore  you  with  the  details 
of  my  secret  martyrdom,"  resumed  Octave  ; 
"  I  will  hasten  to  a  decisive  scene.  One  day, 
unable  to  restrain  my  imperious  desire  to 
see  the  countess,  I  went  to  her  before  the 
hour  at  which  she  was  accustomed  to  re- 
ceive. The  weather  was  heavy  and  overcast. 
Mme.  Labinska  was  not  in  the  salon.  She 
was  seated  under  a  portico,  which  was  sup- 
ported by  graceful  columns,  and  opened  on 
a  terrace,  from  which  one  descended  to  the 
garden ;  she  had  had  her  piano,  a  wicker 
lounge,  and  a  few  chairs  brought  out,  and  jar- 
dinieres filled  with  splendid  flowers  (nowhere 
are  they  so  fresh  and  odorous  as  in  Florence) 
stood  between  the  columns,  and  impregnated 
with  their  perfume  the  infrequent  breezes  which 
came  from  the  Apennines.  In  front,  through 
the  openings  of  the  arcades,  one  could  see  the 
well-pruned  yew  and  box  trees,  peopled  with 
mythological  statues  in  the  labored  style  of 
Baccia  Bandinelli  or  of  Ammanato,  and  here 
and  there  a  tall  centenary  cypress.  In  the 
dim  distance  rose  the  dome  of  Santa  Maria  del 
Fiore,  and  the  square  belfry  of  Palazza  Vec- 
chio  jutted  above  the  silhouette  of  the  town. 

"  The   countess   was    alone,   and   reclining 


AY  A  TAR.  57 

on  her  lounge ;  never  had  I  thought  her  so 
beautiful ;  in  indolent  languor  she  lay  like  a 
water  nymph,  billowed  in  the  foamy  whiteness 
of  an  ample  India-muslin  gown  that  was  bor- 
dered with  a  frothy  trimming  which  resembled 
the  silvery  edge  of  a  wave,  and  clasped  at  the 
throat  by  an  exquisitely  chased  Khorassan 
brooch.  In  brief,  her  costume  was  as  airy  as 
the  drapery  which  floats  -about  the  figure  of 
Victory.  Her  arms,  fairer  than  the  alabaster  in 
which  Florentine  sculptors  copy  antique  stat- 
ues, issued  from  wide  sleeves  open  to  the  shoul- 
der like  pistils  from  a  flower  chalice  ;  a  broad 
black  sash  knotted  at  the  waist  with  falling 
ends  contrasted  sharply  with  all  this  whiteness  ; 
but  the  melancholy  effect  which  these  shades 
ascribed  to  mourning  might  have  given  was  en- 
livened by  the  point  of  a  tiny  Circassian  slip- 
per of  blue  morocco  figured  with  yellow  ara- 
besques, which  peeped  from  beneath  her  skirt. 

"The  countess'  blonde  hair,  slightly  raised 
as  if  by  a  passing  zephyr,  revealed  her  smooth 
forehead  and  transparent  temples,  and  formed 
a  nimbus,  through  which  the  light  glittered  in 
a  shower  of  gold. 

"On  a  chair  near  by,  a  large  hat  of  rice 
straw,  trimmed  with  long  black  ribbons,  similar 
to  those  on  her  dress,  fluttered  in  the  breeze, 
and  by  it  was  a  pair  of  unworn  gloves  of  Swe- 
dish kid.  On  my  arrival  Prascovie  closed  the 


58  TALES  BEFORE  SUPPER. 

book  she  was  reading,  —  the  poems  of  Mic- 
kiewicz,  —  and  gave  me  a  kindly  nod ;  she  was 
alone,  a  circumstance  as  uncommon  as  it  was 
favorable.  I  seated  myself  opposite  her  on  the 
chair  she  designated,  and  for  some  minutes  one 
of  those  silences  fell  upon  us  which  are  so  pain- 
ful if  prolonged.  None  of  the  commonplaces 
of  conversation  came  to  my  aid  ;  my  thoughts 
were  confused,  waves  of  flame  rose  from  my 
heart  to  my  eyes,  and  my  passion  cried,  '  Do 
not  lose  this  opportunity.' 

"  I  do  not  know  what  I  might  have  done  if 
the  countess,  divining  the  cause  of  my  emo- 
tion, had  not  partly  risen,  and  extended  her 
beautiful  hand  as  though  to  close  my  mouth. 

" '  Not  a  word,  Octave.  You  love  me,  I 
know,  I  feel,  I  believe  it ;  nor  does  it  anger  me, 
for  love  is  involuntary.  Stricter  women  than 
I  would  be  offended,  but  I  pity  you  because  I 
cannot  return  it,  and  it  pains  me  to  be  the 
cause  of  your  unhappiness.  I  regret  that  we 
should  have  met,  and  blame  the  whim  which 
made  me  leave  Venice  for  Florence.  At  first 
I  hoped  that  my  persistent  coldness  would 
weary  and  estrange  you,  but  nothing  rebuffs 
true  love,  of  which  I  see  all  the  signs  in  your 
eyes.  Do  not  let  my  sympathy  arouse  in  you 
either  dreams  or  illusions ;  nor  must  you  take 
it  as  an  encouragement.  An  angel  with  dia- 
mond shield  and  flaming  sword  protects  me 


AVATAR.  59 

more  surely  than  religion,  duty,  or  virtue  against 
every  seduction  ;  and  this  angel  is  my  love : 
I  adore  the  Count  Labinski.  I  have  had  the 
good  fortune  to  make  a  love-match.' " 

"  A  flood  of  tears  burst  from  my  eyes  at 
this  frank,  loyal,  yet  modest  avowal,  and  I  felt 
the  spring  of  life  break  within  me. 

"  Prascovie  rose  in  extreme  agitation,  and, 
with  a  motion  of  gracious  feminine  pity,  pressed 
her  delicate  handkerchief  to  my  eyes. 

"  'There,  do  not  weep,'  she  said ;  '  I  forbid 
it.  Try  to  divert  your  thoughts  ;  imagine  that 
I  have  forever  disappeared,  that  I  am  dead  ; 
forget  me.  Travel,  work,  do  good ;  mingle  ac- 
tively in  the  tide  of  life  ;  console  yourself  with 
art  or  love '  .  .  .  At  this  I  interrupted  her 
with  a  gesture. 

"  '  Do  you  think,'  she  asked,  '  you  would 
suffer  less  in  continuing  to  see  me?  If  so, 
come.  I  will  always  receive  you.  God  says  we 
must  pardon  our  enemies ;  why,  then,  should 
we  ill-treat  those  who  love  us  ?  Nevertheless, 
absence  seems  to  me  a  more  certain  remedy. 
In  two  years  we  can  shake  hands  without  dan- 
ger—  for  you,'  she  added,  attempting  a  smile. 

"  The  next  day  I  left  Florence  ;  but  neither 
study,  travel,  nor  time  has  diminished  my  suf- 
fering. I  am  dying :  do  not  prevent  it,  doc- 
tor ! " 

"  Have  you  seen  the  countess  since  ? "  asked 


60  TALES  BEFORE  SUPPER. 

the  physician,  with  an  odd  sparkle  in  his  blue 
eyes. 

"  No,"  answered  Octave,  "  but  she  is  in 
Paris,"  and  he  extended  a  card  on  which  was 
engraved  : 

The  Countess  Prascovie  Labinska.  And  in  a 
a  corner,  Thursdays. 


III. 

AMONG  the  infrequent  passers  who  follow 
the  Avenue  Gabriel  from  the  Turkish  Embassy 
to  the  Elyse'e  Bourbon,  and  prefer  the  silence, 
solitude,  and  fragrant  calm  of  this  avenue  to 
the  dusty  whirl  and  noisy  elegance  of  the 
ChampS'Elysees,  there  are  few  who  would  not 
pause  with  mingled  feelings  of  admiration  and 
envy  before  a  poetic  and  mysterious  dwelling 
where  for  once  felicity  seemed  to  be  lodged  by 
wealth. 

Who  is  there  who  has  not  halted  at  the  rail- 
ing of  a  park  and  gazed  attentively  through 
the  green  foliage  at  some  white  villa,  and  then 
passed  on  with  heavy  heart,  as  if  the  dream  of 
his  life  lay  hidden  behind  the  walls  ?  Then, 
again,  other  dwellings  seen  thus  from  the  out- 
side cause  an  indefinable  melancholy.  The 
gray  gloom  of  desertion  and  despair  has  settled 
upon  them  and  blighted  the  tops  of  the  sur 


AVATAR.  6 1 

rounding  trees ;  the  statues  are  moss-stained, 
the  flowers  droop,  the  water  stagnates  in  the 
fountain ;  in  spite  of  the  rake,  the  paths  are 
overrun  with  weeds,  and  if  there  are  birds 
they  are  dumb. 

The  gardens  on  the  Avenue  Gabriel  are  sep- 
arated from  the  sidewalk  by  a  hedge,  and  ex- 
tend in  strips  of  varying  size  to  the  houses 
which  face  the  Faubourg  Saint-Honord  The 
one  alluded  to  ended  at  the  street  in  an  em- 
bankment supporting  a  wall  of  rocks  chosen 
for  the  curious  irregularity  of  their  shape.  The 
sides  of  this  wall,  being  much  higher  than  the 
centre,  formed  a  rough,  dark  frame  for  the 
radiant  landscape  set  between.  The  crevices 
of  the  rocks  held  soil  enough  to  nourish  the 
roots  of  rich  plants  and  flowers,  whose  varie- 
gated verdure  was  thrown  into  relief  against 
the  sombre  hue  of  the  stone.  No  artist  could 
have  created  a  more  effective  foreground. 

The  walls  that  inclosed  the  sides  of  this  min- 
iature paradise  disappeared  under  a  curtain  of 
climbing  plants,  of  which  the  stalks,  shoots, 
and  tendrils  formed  a  trellis  of  green.  Thanks 
to  this  arrangement,  the  garden  resembled  an 
opening  in  a  forest  rather  than  a  narrow  grass- 
plot  shut  in  the  limits  of  civilization. 

Just  behind  the  rock-work  stood  several 
groups  of  slender  trees,  whose  thick  foliage 
contrasted  picturesquely.  Beyond  them  spread 


62  TALES  BEFORE  SUPPER. 

a  plot  of  turf,  without  an  uneren  spear  of  grass. 
Finer,  softer  than  the  velvet  of  a  queen's  man- 
tle, it  was  of  that  ideal  green  rarely  obtained, 
except  before  the  steps  of  a  feudal  English 
manor ;  a  natural  carpet  on  which  the  eye  loves 
to  rest,  and  the  foot  fears  to  crush  ;  an  emerald 
rug  where,  during  the  day,  the  pet  gazelle 
frolics  in  the  sun  with  the  lace-frocked  scion  of 
an  hundred  earls,  and  where  by  moonlight  a 
Titania  of  the  West  End  glides  hand  in  hand 
with  an  Oberon  inscribed  in  the  peerage.  A 
path  of  sand,  sifted  through  a  sieve  that  no 
bit  of  shell  or  edge  of  flint  should  fret  the  aris- 
tocratic foot,  circled  like  a  yellow  ribbon  around 
this  thick,  smooth  lawn,  which,  leveled  by  the 
roller,  was  moistened  even  in  the  dryest  days 
of  summer  with  the  artificial  rain  of  the  sprink- 
ler. At  the  end  of  the  grass-plot  blazed  a  bed 
of  geraniums,  a  display  of  flowery  fireworks, 
whose  scarlet  stars  flamed  against  a  dark  mass 
of  heath. 

The  charming  facade  of  the  house  closed 
the  perspective.  Slim  Ionic  pillars,  and  a 
classical  roof  surmounted  at  each  corner  by 
graceful  marble  statues,  gave  it  the  appearance 
of  a  Greek  temple  transported  by  the  fancy  of 
a  millionnaire,  and  subdued,  by  a  suggestion  of 
art  and  poetry,  all  that  might  otherwise  have 
seemed  ostentatious  luxury ;  between  the  pil- 
lars awnings  slashed  with  crimson  were  usually 


AVATAR.  63 

lowered,  shading  and  defining  the  windows 
which  opened,  at  full  length,  like  glass  doors, 
under  the  portico. 

When  the  capricious  sky  of  Paris  deigned  to 
stretch  a  bit  of  blue  behind  this  dainty  palace 
it  looked  so  lovely  in  its  thicket  of  verdure 
that  it  might  easily  have  been  taken  for  the 
abode  of  a  fairy  queen,  or  for  one  of  Baron's 
pictures  enlarged. 

I v\ tending  into  the  garden  from  each  side  of 
the  house  were  two  conservatories,  whose  crys- 
tal panes,  set  in  gilt,  sparkled  in  the  sun,  and 
gave  to  a  world  of  the  rarest  exotic  plants  the 
illusion  of  their  native  air. 

A  matutinal  poet  strolling  in  the  Avenue 
Gabriel  at  dawn  would  have  heard  the  night- 
ingale trilling  the  last  notes  of  his  nocturne, 
and  seen  the  blackbird  in  his  yellow  slippers 
quite  at  home  in  the  garden  walks.  At  night, 
in  the  silence  of  the  sleeping  city,  when  the 
roll  of  carriages  returning  from  the  Ope'ra  has 
ceased,  the  same  poet  might  have  dimly  dis- 
tinguished a  white-robed  form  clinging  to  the 
arm  of  a  young  and  handsome  man,  and  he 
would  certainly  have  returned  to  his  solitary 
attic  sad  and  depressed. 

The  reader,  doubtless,  divines  that  here  lived 
the  Countess  Prascovie  Labinska  and  her  hus- 
band. Count  Olaf  Labinski  had  returned 
from  the  Caucasian  war  after  a  glorious  cam- 


64      TALES  BEFORE  SUPPER. 

paign,  in  which,  if  he  had  not  fought  face  to 
face  with  the  mystical  and  intangible  Schamyl, 
at  least  he  had  attacked  the  most  devout  and 
fanatic  Mourides  of  the  illustrious  Sheik.  He 
avoided  bullets  as  only  the  brave  can,  by  rush- 
ing to  meet  them,  and  the  curved  scimiters  o 
the  warlike  barbarians  had  broken  on  his  chest 
without  so  much  as  scratching  him.  Courage 
is  a  flawless  cuirass.  The  Count  Labinski 
possessed  the  mad  valor  of  the  Slav  races,  who 
love  danger  for  its  own  sake,  and  to  whom  can 
be  applied  the  refrain  of  an  old  Scandinavian 
song  :  "  They  kill,  die,  and  laugh  !  " 

The  rapture  with  which  husband  and  wife, 
to  whom  marriage  was  a  passion  sanctioned 
by  God  and  man,  were  reunited  could  only  be 
described  by  Thomas  Moore  in  the  style  of 
the  "Loves  of  the  Angels"  !  To  portray  it, 
each  drop  of  ink  would  have  to  be  trans- 
formed to  a  drop  of  light,  and  each  word 
evaporate  on  the  paper  with  the  flame  and 
the  perfume  of  a  grain  of  incense.  What  pic- 
ture is  possible  of  souls  melted  in  one  like 
two  dew-drops  which,  dissolving  on  a  lily  petal, 
meet,  blend,  absorb  one  another,  and  form  but 
a  single  gem? 

Happiness  is  so  rare  in  this  world  that  man 
has  not  thought  to  invent  words  to  depict  it, 
while  on  the  other  hand  the  vocabulary  of  suf- 
fering, moral  and  physical,  fills  innumerable 
columns  in  the  dictionaries  of  all  languages. 


AVATAR.  65 

Lovers,  even  in  childhood,  the  hearts  of 
Olaf  and  Prascovie  had  never  throbbed  to 
other  names.  In  fact,  knowing  almost  from 
the  cradle  that  they  were  destined  for  each 
other,  the  rest  of  the  world  was  but  land- 
scape to  them.  One  might  have  said  that 
they  were  the  twin  halves  of  Plato's  An- 
drogyne, which,  seeking  each  other  since 
the  primeval  divorce,  were  at  last  united  and 
joined  together.  In  short,  they  formed  that 
duality  in  unity  which  is  known  as  perfect 
harmony ;  and,  side  by  side,  they  marched,  or 
rather  sped,  through  life  with  an  equal  im- 
pulse, sustained  and  impelled,  as  Dante  has  it, 
"like  two  doves  beckoned  by  the  same  de- 
sire." 

That  nothing  might  disturb  this  felicity,  a 
colossal  fortune  enveloped  it  in  an  atmos- 
phere of  gold.  When  this  radiant  couple  ap- 
peared, Misery,  consoled,  shed  its  rags,  and 
dried  its  tears;  for  Olaf  and  Prascovie  had 
the  noble  egotism  of  happiness,  and  could  not 
endure  affliction  amid  their  own  delight. 

Since  polytheism  has  disappeared,  and  with 
it  the  young  gods,  the  smiling  genii,  the  celes- 
tial youths  whose  forms  were  absolute  in  per- 
fection, harmonious  in  rhythm,  and  perfect  in 
idealism,  and  since  ancient  Greece  no  longer 
chants  the  hymn  to  beauty  in  Parian  strophes, 
man  has  cruelly  abused  his  permission  to 


66  TALES  BEFORE  SUPPER. 

be  ill-favored.  Although  fashioned  in  God's 
image,  he  is  but  a  poor  likeness  of  him. 

The  Count  Labinski,  however,  had  not  prof- 
ited by  this  license.  His  face  was  an  elon- 
gated oval ;  his  nose  was  clearly  and  boldly 
cut ;  his  mouth  firmly  outlined  and  accentuated 
by  a  pointed  blonde  mustache ;  his  chin,  cleft 
by  a  dimple,  was  ever  raised  ;  while  his  black 
eyes,  through  a  striking  and  pleasing  singular- 
ity, caused  him  to  look  like  one  of  the  warrior 
angels,  St.  Michael  or  Raphael,  who,  mailed 
in  gold,  combated  the  devil.  In  fact,  he  would 
have  been  too  handsome  were  it  not  for  the 
virile  light  which  shone  from  the  dark  iris  of 
his  eyes,  and  the  shade  of  bronze  that  the  sun 
of  Asia  had  spread  over  his  features. 

The  count  was  of  middle  height,  slight, 
graceful,  nervous,  concealing,  beneath  an  ap- 
parent delicacy,  muscles  of  steel.  When  for 
some  embassy  ball  he  donned  a  magnate's  cos- 
tume, that  was  embossed  with  gold,  glittered 
with  diamonds,  and  embroidered  with  pearls, 
he  passed  through  the  throng  like  a  shining 
apparition,  exciting  the  jealousy  of  the  men 
and  the  admiration  of  the  women,  to  whom, 
be  it  said,  Prascovie  rendered  him  indifferent. 
We  need  not  add  that  the  count  was  as  intelli- 
gent as  he  was  handsome  ;  the  good  fairies  had 
visited  his  cradle,  and  the  evil  witch  who  spoils 
everything  was  in  a  good  humor  that  day. 


A  VA  TAR.  67 

It  is  easy  to  understand  that  with  such  a 
rival  Octave  de  Saville  stood  a  poor  chance, 
and  also,  that  he  was  sensible  in  allowing  him- 
self to  expire  quietly  on  the  cushions  of  his 
sofa,  and  that,  too,  despite  the  hope  with 
which  the  fantastic  physician,  Balthazar  Cher- 
bonneau  attempted  to  revivify  his  heart.  The 
only  way  was  to  forget  Prascovie,  and  that  was 
impossible.  To  see  her  was  evidently  useless. 
Octave  felt  that  the  countess'  resolution  would 
never  weaken  in  its  gentle  implacability  and 
compassionate  coldness.  He  was  afraid  that 
in  the  presence  of  his  innocent  and  beloved 
assassin  his  wounds  might  reopen  and  bleed, 
and  he  did  not  wish  to  accuse  her. 


IV. 

Two  years  had  passed  since  the  day  when 
the  Countess  Labinska  had  prevented  Octave 
from  making  the  declaration  of  love  to  which 
she  had  no  right  to  listen.  Awakened  from 
his  dream,  Octave  had  taken  his  departure  a 
prey  to  the  blackest  despair,  and  had  not  since 
communicated  with  her.  The  one  word  he 
would  have  wished  to  write  was  forbidden.  Sur- 
prised at  his  silence,  the  countess'  thoughts  had 
frequently  and  sorrowfully  turned  to  her  un- 
fortunate admirer :  had  he  forgotten  her  ?  The 


68  TALES  BEFORE  SUPPER. 

simplicity  of  her  nature  made  her  hope  that  he 
had,  without  being  able  to  believe  that  he  had 
really  done  so,  for  the  light  of  inextinguishable 
passion  which  blazed  in  Octave's  eyes  was  not 
of  a  character  to  be  misinterpreted.  Love 
and  the  gods  are  recognized  at  first  sight. 
The  limpid  azure  of  her  content  was  slightly 
clouded  by  this  knowledge,  and  it  inspired  her 
with  the  tender  melancholy  of  the  angels  who, 
in  heaven,  have  yet  a  thought  for  earth.  Her 
gentle  spirit  suffered  that  she  should  be  the 
cause  of  pain  ;  but  what  can  the  golden  star 
shining  on  high  do  for  the  obscure  shepherd 
holding  up  his  mortal  arms.  In  mythological 
times  it  is  true  Diana  descended  in  silvery 
rays  upon  the  sleeping  Endymion,  but  then 
Diana  was  not  married  to  a  Polish  count. 

The  Countess  Labinska,  upon  her  arrival 
in  Paris,  had  sent  Octave  the  commonplace 
invitation  which  Dr.  Balthazar  Cherbonneau 
was  twirling  abstractedly  between  his  fingers. 
Though  she  had  wished  him  to  come  and  see 
her,  yet  when  he  failed  to  do  so  she  said  to 
herself  with  a  feeling  of  involuntary  joy,  "  He 
loves  me  still !  "  She  was  a  woman  of  angelic 
purity,  and  chaste  as  the  uppermost  snow  of 
the  Himalayas ;  but  God  himself  in  the  depth 
of  the  infinite  has  to  distract  him  from  the 
monotony  of  eternity  only  the  pleasure  of 
hearing  the  beating  heart  of  some  poor,  per- 


AVATAR.  69 

ishable  creature  on  a  puny  globe  that  is  itself 
lost  in  the  immensities  of  space.  Prascovie 
was  not  sterner  than  God,  and  Count  Olaf 
could  not  have  censured  this  delicate  volup- 
tuousness of  the  soul. 

"  Your  story,  to  which  I  have  listened  atten- 
tively," said  the  physician  to  Octave,  "  proves 
to  me  that  all  hope  on  your  part  would  be 
chimerical.  The  countess  will  never  share 
your  love." 

"  Vou  see,  Monsieur  Cherbonneau,  that  I  was 
right  in  not  trying  to  retain  my  ebbing  life." 

"I  said,"  the  physician  continued,  "that 
ordinary  remedies  were  useless.  But,  in  lands 
whicK  the  stupidity  of  civilization  regards  as 
barbasous  there  are  occult  powers,  of  which 
contemporary  science  is  absolutely  ignorant. 
In  those  lands  primitive  man  in  his  first  con- 
tact with  the  vivifying  forces  of  nature  ac- 
quired a  knowledge  which  is  believed  to  have 
since  been  lost,  a  knowledge  which  the  migrat- 
ing tribes,  the  founders  of  races,  were  unable 
to  preserve.  This  knowledge,  handed  down 
from  initiate  to  initiate  in  the  dumb  recesses 
of  temples,  was  subsequently  confided  to  hie- 
roglyphics paneled  across  the  walls  of  the  El- 
loran  crypt  in  sacred  idioms,  unintelligible  to 
the  vulgar.  But  on  the  summit  of  Meru, — 
the  cradle  of  the  Ganges,  at  the  foot  of  the 
marble  stairs  of  the  holy  city  of  Benares,  in 


70  TALES  BEFORE  SUPPER. 

depths  of  the  ruined  pagodas  of  Ceylon,  aged 
Brahmans  are  to  be  seen  deciphering  forgotten 
manuscripts,  yogis,  who,  unconscious  of  the 
birds  that  nest  in  their  hair,  pass  their  lives 
in  repeating  the  ineffable  syllable  Om,  and 
fakirs  whose  shoulders  still  bear  the  cicatrices 
of  the  Juggernaut's  iron  stamp.  These  are 
the  ultimate  depositaries  of  the  lost  arcana, 
and  it  is  they  who,  when  they  so  deign,  are 
able  with  their  esoteric  lore  to  produce  the 
most  marvelous  effects. 

"The  materialism  of  Europe  has  not  the 
faintest  conception  of  the  spirituality  which  the 
Hindus  have  reached  :  the  protracted  fasts, 
the  self  absorption,  the  impossible  attitudes 
maintained  for  years  together,  attenuate  their 
bodies  to  such  an  extent  that  to  see  them 
crouched  beneath  a  molten  sun,  between  glow- 
ing braziers,  their  long  nails  buried  in  the 
palms  of  their  hands,  one  might  fancy  they 
were  Egyptian  mummies  withdrawn  from  their 
tombs,  and  bent  double  in  apelike  positions. 
Their  mortal  envelope  is  but  a  chrysalis,  which 
the  immortal  butterfly,  the  soul,  can  abandon 
or  resume  at  will.  While  their  meagre  form, 
inert  and  hideous,  lies  like  a  night  moth  sur- 
prised by  the  dawn,  their  untrammeled  spirit 
rises  on  the  wings  of  hallucination  through 
incalculable  distances  to  the  spheres  of  the 
supernatural.  They  are  visited  by  dreams  and 


AVATAR.  yi 

visions ;  from  one  ecstasy  to  another  they  fol- 
low the  undulations  that  the  ages  make  as  they 
sink  and  subside  in  the  oceans  of  eternity. 
To  them  the  infinite  delivers  up  its  secrets ; 
they  assist  at  the  creation  of  worlds,  at  the 
genesis  and  metamorphosis  of  gods  ;  they  re- 
call the  sciences  that  have  been  engulfed  in 
plutonian  and  diluvian  cataclysms,  the  unre- 
membered  relations  of  man  and  of  nature. 
When  in  this  condition  they  mumble  words 
that  no  child  of  earth  has  lisped  for  aeons ;  they 
intercept  the  primordial  tongue,  the  Logos 
which  made  light  spring  from  the  archaic 
shadows.  They  are  regarded  as  madmen ; 
they  are  almost  gods  !  " 

This  singular  preamble  aroused  Octave's 
attention  to  the  last  degree.  He  was  unable 
to  understand  what  connection  there  could  be 
between  his  love  for  the  countess  and  the 
mummeries  of  the  Hindus,  and,  in  conse- 
quence, his  eyes  bristled  with  interrogation 
points.  His  state  of  mind  was  divined  by  the 
physician  who,  waving  aside  his  questions  with 
a  gesture  as  who  should  say,  Be  patient,  you 
will  see  in  a  moment  that  I  am  not  digressing, 
continued  as  follows  :  — 

"  Outwearied  of  questioning,  scalpel  in  hand, 
the  dumb  corpses  in  the  amphitheatres,  corpses 
that  disclosed  but  death  to  me  who  sought 
life,  I  formed  the  project,  —  and  one,  be  it 


72  TALES  BEFORE  SUPPER. 

said,  as  audacious  as  that  of  Prometheus  who 
scaled  the  heavens  to  rob  them  of  fire,  —  I 
formed  the  project  of  intercepting  and  surpris- 
ing the  soul,  of  analyzing  and  dissecting  it,  if 
I  may  so  express  myself.  I  passed  over  the 
effect ;  I  looked  for  the  cause ;  and  therewith 
conceived  an  immense  disdain  for  the  self-evi- 
dent nothingness  of  materialism. 

"  To  work  over  a  fortuitous  combination  of 
evanescent  molecules  seemed  to  me  worthy 
only  of  a  vulgar  empiric.  I  attempted  to 
undo  with  magnetism  the  bands  that  join 
mind  and  matter.  In  experiments  that  were 
certainly  prodigious,  but  which  failed  to  satisfy 
me,  I  surpassed  Mesmer,  Deslon,  Maxwell, 
Puyse'gur,  and  Deleuze :  Catalepsy,  somnam- 
bulism, clairvoyance,  soul  projection,  in  fact, 
all  the  effects  which  are  incomprehensible  to 
the  masses,  though  simple  enough  to  me,  I 
produced  at  will.  Nay,  I  did  more ;  from  the 
ecstasies  of  Cardan  and  St.  Thomas  of  Aqui- 
nas I  ascended  to  the  self-abstraction  of  the 
Pythians  ;  I  penetrated  the  mysteries  of  the 
Greeks ;  the  arcana  of  the  Hebrews  ;  I  pierced 
the  innermost  wisdom  of  Trophonius  and  ^s- 
culapius,  and  therewithal,  I  found  in  their  now 
traditional  miracles  that  by  a  gesture,  a  word, 
a  glance,  by  mere  volition  or  some  other  un- 
known agent,  the  soul  would  shrink  or  expand. 
One  by  one  I  repeated  all  the  miracles  of 


AVATAR.  73 

Apollonius  of  Tyana.  Yet  still  my  ambition 
was  unfulfilled  ;  the  soul  escaped  me ;  I  could 
feel  it,  hear  it,  act  upon  it,  but  between  it  and 
myself  there  was  a  veil  of  flesh  that  I  could 
not  draw  aside.  Did  I  do  so,  the  soul  had 
vanished.  I  was  like  the  bird-catcher  who 
holds  a  bird  beneath  a  net  which  he  dare  not 
raise  lest  his  winged  prey  shall  mount  the  sky 
and  escape  him. 

"I  went,  therefore,  to  India.  In  that  land 
of  archaic  wisdom  I  hoped  to  find  the  solu- 
tion of  the  riddle.  I  learned  Sanskrit  and 
Prakrit,  the  idioms  of  the  erudite,  and  the  lan- 
guage of  the  people.  I  enabled  myself  to  con- 
verse with  Pundits  and  Brahmans.  I  crossed 
the  tiger-haunted  jungles.  I  skirted  the  sa- 
cred lakes  possessed  of  crocodiles.  I  forced 
my  way  through  impenetrable  forests,  scatter- 
ing the  bats  and  monkeys  before  my  path,  and 
at  times,  in  a  byway  made  by  savage  beasts,  I 
halted  abruptly  face  to  face  with  an  elephant. 
And  all  this  to  reach  the  hut  of  some  far- 
famed  yogi,  one  in  communication  with  the 
Mahatmas  ;  and  near  him  I  would  sit  for  days 
sharing  his  gazelle  skin,  and  noting  the  vague 
incantations  that  fell  from  his  black,  cracked 
lips.  In  this  manner  I  caught  the  all-power- 
ful words,  the  evoking  formulas,  the  syllables 
of  the  creating  Logos. 

"  In  the  interior  recesses  of  pagodas  that  no 


74  TALES  BEFORE  SUPPER. 

eye  save  that  of  the  initiate  has  seen,  but  which 
the  garb  of  a  Brahman  permitted  me  to  pene- 
trate, I  studied  the  symbolic  sculptures.  I 
read  many  of  the  cosmological  mysteries,  many 
of  the  legends  of  lost  civilizations.  I  discov- 
ered the  meaning  of  the  emblems  that  the 
hybrid  gods,  profuse  as  Indian  vegetation, 
clutch  in  their  multiple  hands.  I  meditated 
over  Brahma's  circle,  Vishnu's  lotus,  the  cobra 
de  capello  of  the  blue  god  Siro.  Ganesa  un- 
rolling her  pachyderm  trunk,  and  winking  her 
small  eyes  fringed  with  long  lashes,  seemed 
to  smile  at  my  efforts  and  encourage  my  re- 
searches. Each  one  of  these  monstrous  figures 
appeared  to  whisper  in  their  language  of  stone : 
'We  are  but  forms  ;  it  is  the  Spirit  that  stirs.' 

"  A  priest  of  the  Temple  of  Tirunamalay,  to 
whom  I  disclosed  my  intentions,  told  me  of  a 
yogi  who  dwelt  in  one  of  the  grottoes  of  the 
isle  of  Elephanta,  and  who  had  reached  the 
highest  degree  of  sanctity.  I  found  him 
propped  against  the  wall  of  the  cavern.  Robed 
in  sackcloth,  his  knees  drawn  up  to  his  chin, 
his  fingers  clasped  around  his  legs,  he  crouched 
there  motionless.  His  upturned  pupils  left  vis- 
ible only  the  whites  of  his  eyes ;  his  drawn  lips 
exposed  his  teeth ;  his  skin  clung  to  his  cheek- 
bones ;  his  hair,  thrown  back,  hung  in  stiff  locks 
like  overhanging  plants  ;  his  beard,  divided  in 
two  floods,  nearly  touched  the  ground  ;  and  his 
nails  curved  inward  like  an  eagle's  claw. 


AVATAR.  75 

"  His  skin,  naturally  brown,  had  been  dried 
and  darkened  by  the  sun  till  it  resembled 
basalt,  and,  thus  seated,  he  looked,  both  in 
form  and  color,  like  a  Canopic  vase.  At  first  I 
thought  him  dead.  His  arms,  that  were  anchy- 
losed  in  a  cataleptic  immobility,  I  shook  in 
vain  ;  in  his  ear  I  shouted  the  most  power- 
ful of  the  saqramental  words  which  were  to  re- 
veal me  to  him  as  initiate,  but  he  heeded  them 
not,  nor  did  his  eyelids  quiver.  In  my  despair 
of  arousing  him  I  was  about  to  leave  him,  when 
suddenly  I  heard  a  singular  rustle  ;  swift  as  a 
lightning  flash  a  bluish  spark  passed  before  my 
eyes,  hovered  for  a  second  on  the  half-open 
lips  of  the  penitent,  and  disappeared. 

"  Brahma-Logum  (such  was  the  name  of  this 
holy  personage)  seemed  to  awake  from  a 
lethargy  ;  he  opened  his  eyes,  gazed  at  me  in 
a  natural  manner,  and  answered  my  questions. 
'  Your  wish  is  fulfilled,'  he  said ;  '  you  have 
seen  a  soul.  I  have  succeeded  in  freeing  mine 
from  my  body  whenever  it  so  pleases  me  ;  it 
goes  and  returns  like  a  luminous  bee,  percep- 
tible only  to  the  eyes  of  the  adept.  I  have 
fasted,  I  have  prayed,  I  have  meditated  so 
long,  I  have  dominated  the  flesh  so  rigorously, 
that  I  have  been  able  to  loose  the  terrestrial 
bonds.  Vishnu,  the  god  of  the  tenfold  incar- 
nations, has  revealed  to  me  the  mysterious 
syllable  that  guides  the  soul  in  its  avatars.  If, 


76  TALES  BEFORE  SUPPER. 

after  making  the  consecrated  gestures,  I  were 
to  pronounce  that  word,  your  soul  would  fly 
away  and  animate  whatever  man  or  beast  I 
might  designate.  I  bequeath  you  this  secret, 
which  of  the  whole  world  I  am  now  the  sole 
possessor.  I  am  glad  you  have  come,  for  I 
long  to  disappear  in  the  bosom  of  the  Increate 
as  does  the  drop  of  water  that  falls  in  the  sea.' 
And  therewith  the  penitent  whispered  in  a 
voice  as  feeble  as  the  last  gasp  of  the  mori- 
bund, but  very  distinctly,  a  few  syllables  which 
made  a  shudder,  such  as  that  which  Job  has 
mentioned,  run  down  my  back." 

"  Doctor,"  cried  Octave,  "  what  do  you 
mean  ?  I  dare  not  fathom  the  awful  profun- 
dities of  your  thought." 

"  I  mean,"  M.  Balthazar  Cherbonneau  tran- 
quilly replied,  "  that  I  have  not  forgotten  my 
friend  Brahma-Logum's  magic  formula,  and 
that  the  Countess  Prascovie  will  be  clever  in- 
deed if  she  recognizes  the  soul  of  Octave  de 
Saville  in  the  body  of  Olaf  Labinski." 


V. 

DR.  BALTHAZAR  CHERBONNEAU'S  reputation 
as  physician  and  wonder-worker  had  begun  to 
be  noised  through  Paris.  His  eccentricities, 
affected  or  natural,  had  made  him  the  fashion 


AVATAR.  77 

But  far  from  seeking  to  form  what  is  called  a 
practice,  he  rebuffed  his  patients  by  shutting 
the  door  in  their  faces,  giving  strange  pre- 
scriptions, or  ordering  impossible  regimens. 
The  cases  that  he  accepted  were  those  that 
were  hopeless  ;  a  vulgar  consumption,  a  hum- 
drum enterite,  or  a  commonplace  typhoid  he 
disdainfully  dismissed  to  the  care  of  his  brother 
practitioners.  But  on  supreme  occasions  the 
cures  he  effected  were  simply  inconceivable. 
Standing  at  the  bedside,  he  made  magic  ges- 
tures over  a  glass  of  water,  and  bodies  already 
stiff  and  cold,  prepared  even  for  the  coffin, 
after  imbibing  a  few  drops  of  the  liquid  recov- 
ered the  flexibility  of  life,  the  colors  of  health, 
and  sitting  up  again  gazed  about  them  with 
eyes  that  had  become  accustomed  to  the  shad- 
ows of  the  tomb.  In  consequence,  he  was 
known  as  the  resurrectionist,  the  physician  of 
the  dead.  But  it  was  not  always  that  he  con- 
sented to  use  his  powers,  and  he  often  refused 
enormous  sums  from  wealthy  invalids.  To 
decide  him  to  undertake  a  struggle  with  de- 
struction, he  must  needs  be  touched  by  the 
grief  of  some  mother  imploring  the  restoration 
of  her  only  child  ;  by  the  despair  of  some  lover 
whose  beloved  was  at  the  door  of  death;  or 
else  it  was  necessary  for  him  to  consider  the 
patient  as  one  whose  life  was  valuable  to  po- 
etry, science,  or  the  progress  of  humanity.  In 


78  TALES  BEFORE  SUPPER. 

this  way  he  saved  a  delicious  baby  that  was 
being  throttled  by  croup's  iron  ringers,  a  charm- 
ing maiden  in  the  last  stages  of  consumption, 
a  poet  in  delirium  tremens,  an  inventor  attacked 
by  cerebral  congestion,  and  whose  discovery 
would  otherwise  have  been  buried  with  him. 

Elsewhere  he  declined  to  intervene,  alleging 
that  nature  should  not  be  interfered  with,  that 
certain  deaths  were  necessary,  and  that  in  pre- 
venting them  there  was  a  risk  of  disturbing 
something  in  the  order  that  is  universal.  You 
can  see,  therefore,  that  M.  Balthazar  Cherbon- 
neau  was  the  most  paradoxical  of  physicians, 
and  that  he  had  brought  with  him  from  India 
a  complete  outfit  of  vagaries.  His  fame  as  a 
magnetizer  was,  however,  even  greater  than  his 
fame  as  a  physician.  In  the  presence  of  a 
select  company  he  had  given  a  seance  or  two, 
of  which  the  marvels  that  were  related  dis- 
turbed every  preconceived  idea  of  the  possible 
and  the  impossible  and  surpassed  the  prodigies 
of  Cagliostro. 

Dr.  Cherbonneau  lived  on  the  ground  floor 
of  an  old  mansion  in  the  Rue  du  Regard. 
The  apartment  which  he  occupied  was  strung 
out  in  the  manner  peculiar  to  former  times. 
The  high  windows  opened  on  a  garden  that 
was  planted  with  great  black-trunked  trees 
topped  with  vibrant  green.  Although  it  was 
summer,  powerful  furnaces  puffed  from  their 


A  VA  TAR.  79 

brazen-grated  mouths  blasts  of  hot  air  that 
maintained  throughout  the  vast  chambers  a 
temperature  that  exceeded  a  hundred  degrees 
Fahrenheit,  for  the  physician,  accustomed  to 
the  incendiary  climate  of  India,  shivered  be- 
neath our  pale  sun  very  much  as  did  that 
traveler  who,  returning  from  the  equatorial 
sources  of  the  Blue  Nile,  shook  with  cold  in 
Cairo ;  as  a  consequence,  Dr.  Cherbonneau 
never  left  his  house  save  in  a  closed  carriage, 
and  on  such  occasions  he  wrapped  himself  in 
a  coat  of  Siberian  fox,  and  rested  his  feet  on  a 
foot-warmer  filled  with  boiling  water. 

His  rooms  were  furnished  with  low  couches 
covered  with  stuffs  from  Malabar,  inworked  with 
chimerical  elephants  and  fabulous  birds  ;  there 
were  detachable  stands,  colored  and  gilded  by 
the  Ceylonese  with  naif  barbarity  ;  there  were 
Japanese  vases  filled  with  exotic  flowers  ;  and 
on  the  floor  from  one  end  of  the  apartment  to 
the  other  was  spread  one  of  those  funereal  car- 
pets sprigged  in  black  and  white  that  the  Thugs 
weave  for  punishment  in  prison,  and  of  which 
the  woof  seems  woven  of  the  hemp  from  the 
ropes  with  which  they  strangle  their  victims. 
And  therewith,  in  the  corners,  were  a  few 
Hindu  idols  of  marble  and  bronze,  the  eyes 
long  and  almond-shaped,  the  nose  hooped  with 
rings,  the  lips  thick  and  smiling,  necklaced 
with  pearls  that  descended  to  the  waist,  sin- 


80  TALES  BEFORE  SUPPER. 

gular  and  mysterious  in  their  attributes,  the 
legs  crossed  on  supporting  pedestals.  On  the 
walls  hung  water-color  miniatures  by  some 
Calcutta  or  Lucknow  artist  representing  the 
Avatars  which  Vishnu  has  accomplished :  his 
incarnation  in  a  fish,  in  a  tortoise,  in  a  pig,  in 
a  lion  with  the  head  of  man,  in  a  Brahman 
dwarf,  in  Rama,  in  a  hero  combating  the 
thousand-armed  giant  Cartasuciriargunen  ;  in 
Krishna,  the  miraculous  child  in  whom  the 
dreamers  see  a  Hindu  Christ;  in  Buddha, 
adorer  of  the  great  god  Mahadeva  ;  and  lastly, 
representing  him  asleep  in  the  Milky  Way  on 
the  five-headed  serpent  coiled  in  the  form  of 
a  supporting  dais,  and  there  awaiting  the  hour 
when  for  final  incarnation  he  shall  assume  the 
form  of  that  winged  white  horse  which  in  drop- 
ping its  hoof  upon  the  universe  shall  cause  the 
world  to  cease  to  be. 

In  the  last  room,  heated  to  an  even  greater 
degree  than  the  others,  M.  Balthazar  Cher- 
bonneau  was  seated  surrounded  by  Sanskrit 
volumes.  In  these  volumes  the  letters  had 
been  made  with  a  stylus  on  thin  tablets  of 
wood,  which  latter  were  pierced  and  strung 
together  on  a  cord  in  a  way  which  more  closely 
resembled  Venetian  blinds  than  books,  at 
least  as  European  libraries  understand  them. 

In  the  centre  of  the  room  an  electric  ma- 
chine, its  bottles  filled  with  gold  leaf  and  its 


AVATAR.  8 1 

glass  plates  revolved  by  cranks,  raised  its  com- 
plicated and  disquieting  silhouette  beside  a 
mesmeric  bucket  spiked  with  numberless  iron 
rods,  and  in  which  was  plunged  a  metal  lance. 
M.  Cherbonneau  was  anything  but  a  charlatan, 
and  did  not  need  a  stage  setting  ;  but,  neverthe- 
less, it  was  difficult  to  enter  this  weird  retreat 
without  experiencing  a  little  of  the  impression 
which,  in  olden  times,  the  alchemic  laboratories 
must  have  caused. 

Count  Olaf  Labinski  had  heard  of  the  mir- 
acles realized  by  the  physician,  and  his  half- 
credulous  curiosity  had  been  aroused.  The 
Slav  races  have  a  natural  leaning  towards 
the  marvelous,  which  the  most  careful  educa- 
tion does  not  always  correct,  and,  besides,  wit- 
nesses worthy  of  belief  who  had  assisted  at 
these  seances  told  things  of  them  which  could 
not  be  credited  until  seen,  no  matter  how  much 
confidence  one  had  in  the  narrator.  The  count 
went,  therefore,  to  call  on  the  thaumaturgist. 

When  he  entered  Dr.  Balthazar  Cherbon- 
neau's  apartment  he  felt  as  if  surrounded  by 
imperceptible  flames  ;  the  blood  rushed  to  his 
head  and  seethed  in  the  veins  of  his  temples. 
He  was  suffocated  by  the  excessive  heat,  and 
the  lamps  burning  with  aromatic  oils,  the  huge 
Java  flowers  swaying  their  chalices  like  censers, 
intoxicated  him  with  their  vertiginous  emana- 
tions and  their  asphyxiating  perfumes.  He 


82  TALES  BEFORE  SUPPER. 

staggered  a  few  steps  towards  M.  Cherbonneau, 
who  was  squatting  on  his  divan  in  one  of  those 
strange  fakir-like  postures  with  which  Prince 
Soltikoff  has  so  picturesquely  illustrated  his 
book  of  Indian  travels.  One  might  have  said, 
on  seeing  the  angles  formed  by  his  joints  be- 
neath the  folds  of  his  garments,  he  was  a  hu- 
man spider  wrapped  in  his  web,  and  crouching 
immovable  before  his  prey.  At  sight  of  the 
count  his  turquoise  pupils  lighted  up  in  their 
orbits,  as  yellow  as  the  bistre  of  the  liverwort, 
with  a  phosphorescent  gleam,  which  as  quickly 
died  away,  as  if  covered  by  a  voluntary  film. 

Understanding  Olaf's  discomfort,  the  physi- 
cian extended  his  hand  towards  him,  and  with 
two  or  three  passes  surrounded  him  with  an 
atmosphere  of  spring,  creating  for  him  a  cool 
paradise  out  of  infernal  heat. 

"  Do  you  feel  better  now  ? "  he  asked.  "  Your 
lungs,  accustomed  to  the  Baltic  breezes,  still 
icy  from  their  contact  with  the  perpetual  snows 
of  the  pole,  must  pant  like  the  bellows  of  a 
forge  in  this  scorching  air  where,  nevertheless, 
I  shiver,  I,  baked,  tempered,  and,  so  to  speak, 
calcinated  in  the  furnaces  of  the  sun." 

Count  Labinski  made  a  sign  to  show  that  he 
no  longer  suffered  from  the  high  temperature 
of  the  apartment. 

The  physician  continued  in  a  good-humored 
tone,  — 


AVATAR.  83 

"  Well,  you  have  heard  my  tricks  of  leger- 
demain spoken  of,  and  you  want  a  sample  of 
my  skill.  Oh,  I  am  cleverer  than  Comus, 
Comte,  or  Bosco." 

"  My  curiosity  is  not  so  frivolous,"  replied 
the  count,  "  and  I  have  too  much  respect  for 
one  of  the  princes  of  science." 

"I  am  not  an  erudite  in  the  acceptation 
given  to  the  word ;  but,  on  the  other  hand,  in 
studying  certain  subjects  disdained  by  science 
I  have  mastered  some  unemployed  occult 
forces,  and  I  produce  effects  which  appear 
miraculous,  though  they  are  perfectly  natural. 
By  watching  for  it,  I  have  sometimes  sur- 
prised the  soul ;  it  has  made  me  confidences 
by  which  I  have  profited,  and  repeated  words 
which  I  have  retained.  The  spirit  is  every- 
thing ;  matter  exists  only  in  appearance.  The 
universe  is,  perhaps,  but  a  dream  of  God, 
or  an  irradiation  of  the  Logos  in  space.  I 
rumple  at  will  the  garment  of  the  body ;  I  stop 
or  quicken  life,  I  remove  the  senses,  I  do  away 
with  distance ;  I  rout  pain  without  chloroform, 
ether,  or  other  anaesthetic  drug.  Armed  with  the 
force  of  my  will,  that  electricity  of  the  intellect, 
I  vivify  or  I  annihilate.  Nothing  is  opaque  to 
my  eyes ;  my  gaze  pierces  everything ;  I  discern 
"the  radiations  of  thought ;  and  I  can  make  them 
vass  through  my  invisible  prism  and  reflect 
tiemselves  on  the  white  curtain  of  my  brain  as 


84  TALES  BEFORE  SUPPER. 

the  solar  spectrums  are  projected  on  a  screen. 
But  all  that  is  trifling  beside  the  prodigies  ac- 
complished by  certain  yogis  of  India  who  have 
arrived  at  the  sublimest  height  of  asceticism. 
We  Europeans  are  too  superficial,  too  inatten- 
tive, too  matter  of  fact,  too  much  in  love  with 
our  clay-prison,  to  open  windows  on  the  eter- 
nal and  the  infinite.  Nevertheless,  as  you 
shall  judge,  I  have  obtained  a  few  rather 
strange  results." 

Whereupon  Dr.  Balthazar  Cherbonneau  slid 
back  on  a  rod  the  rings  of  a  heavy  portiere 
which  concealed  a  sort  of  alcove  situate  at  the 
end  of  the  room.  By  the  light  of  an  alcohol 
flame,  which  flickered  on  a  bronze  tripod, 
Count  Olaf  Labinski  saw  a  spectacle,  at  which, 
notwithstanding  his  courage,  he  shuddered. 
On  a  black  marble  table  was  a  young  man, 
naked  to  the  waist,  and  immobile  as  a  corpse. 
Not  a  drop  of  blood  flowed  from  his  body, 
which  bristled  with  arrows  like  that  of  St. 
Sebastian.  He  might  have  been  taken  for  the 
colored  print  of  a  martyr  in  which  the  vermil- 
ion tinting  of  the  wounds  had  been  forgotten. 

"  This  eccentric  physician,"  Olaf  said  to 
himself,  "  is  perhaps  a  worshiper  of  Siva,  and 
has  sacrificed  a  victim  to  his  god." 

"  Oh,  he  does  not  suffer  at  all ;  prick  him 
without  fear;  not  a  muscle  of  his  face  will 
move,"  said  the  physician,  drawing  the  arrows 


AVATAR.  85 

from  the  body  as  one  takes  pins  from  a  cush- 
ion. 

A  few  rapid  motions  of  the  hands  released 
the  patient  from  the  web  of  emanations  which 
imprisoned  him,  and  he  awoke,  with  an  ecstatic 
smile  on  his  lips,  as  if  from  a  happy  dream. 
M.  Cherbonneau  dismissed  him  with  a  gesture, 
and  he  withdrew  by  a  small  door  cut  in  the 
woodwork  with  which  the  alcove  was  lined. 

"  I  could  have  cut  off  a  leg  or  an  arm  with- 
out his  perceiving  it,"  said  the  physician,  mov- 
ing his  wrinkles  by  way  of  a  smile ;  "  I  did  not 
do  it  because  as  yet  I  cannot  create,  and  man, 
in  that  respect  inferior  to  the  lizard,  has  not  a 
sap  sufficiently  powerful  to  remake  the  mem- 
bers cut  from  him.  But  if  I  do  not  create,  I 
at  least  rejuvenate."  He  raised  a  veil  which 
covered  an  aged  woman  who,  lost  in  a  mag- 
netic slumber,  was  seated  in  an  arm-chair  near 
the  marble  table.  Her  features,  which  might 
once  have  been  beautiful,  were  withered,  and 
the  ravages  of  time  could  be  read  in  the  ema- 
ciated outlines  of  her  arms,  shoulders,  and  bust. 
The  physician  fixed  his  blue  eyes  on  her  with 
obstinate  intensity  for  several  minutes.  Grad- 
ually the  tremulous  lines  strengthened,  the 
contour  of  the  bust  recovered  its  virginal  pu- 
rity, smooth  white  flesh  filled  the  hollows  of 
the  throat,  the  cheeks  rounded  into  the  peach- 
like  bloom  and  freshness  of  youth,  the  eyes 


86  TALES  BEFORE  SUPPER. 

opened  sparkling  in  liquid  vivacity,  and  the 
mask  of  age,  lifted  as  by  magic,  disclosed  a 
lovely  young  woman. 

"  Do  you  think  the  Fountain  of  Youth  has 
som'ewhere  poured  forth  its  miraculous  wa- 
ters ? "  asked  the  physician  of  the  count,  who 
stood  stupefied  by  this  transformation.  "  I,  at 
least,  believe  so,  for  man  invents  nothing,  and 
each  one  of  his  dreams  is  a  divination  or  a 
memory.  But  let  us  leave  this  figure,  remod- 
eled for  an  instant  by  my  will,  and  consult  the 
young  girl  tranquilly  sleeping  in  this  corner. 
Question  her ;  she  knows  more  than  sages  and 
sibyls.  You  can  send  her  to  one  of  your  seven 
castles  in  Bohemia,  and  ask  her  what  your 
most  secret  casket  incloses ;  she  will  tell  you, 
for  it  needs  but  a  second  for  her  soul  to  make 
the  journey,  which  is  not  so  surprising,  after 
all,  since  electricity  travels  seventy  thousand 
leagues  in  that  space  of  time,  and  electricity  is 
to  thought  what  the  cab  is  to  the  train.  Give 
her  your  hand  to  put  yourself  in  communica- 
tion with  her  ;  you  will  not  have  to  formulate 
your  question,  she  will  read  it  in  your  mind." 

The  young  girl  replied  to  the  mental  inter- 
rogation of  the  count  in  a  voice  as  lifeless  as 
that  of  a  spectre. 

"  In  the  cedar  casket  there  is  a  bit  of  clay 
on  which  can  be  seen  the  impress  of  a  small 
foot." 


AVATAR.  87 

"  Has  she  guessed  correctly  ? "  asked  the 
physician  negligently,  as  though  quite  sure  of 
the  infallibility  of  his  somnambulist. 

The  count's  cheeks  grew  crimson.  In  the 
earliest  days  of  his  love  he  had  taken  the  im- 
print of  one  of  Prascovie's  footsteps  from  an 
alley  in  a  park,  and  he  kept  it,  like  a  relic,  in  a 
box  of  the  most  costly  workmanship  inlaid 
with  silver  and  enamel,  whose  microscopic  key 
he  wore  hung  at  his  neck  on  a  Venetian  chain. 

M.  Balthazar  Cherbonneau,  who  was  a  well- 
bred  man,  seeing  the  count's  embarrassment, 
did  not  insist,  but  led  him  to  a  table,  on  which 
was  set  some  water  that  was  crystal  in  its  clar- 
ity. 

"  You  have,  of  course,  heard  of  the  magic 
mirror  in  which  Mephistopheles  showed  Faust 
the  image  of  Helen  ;  now,  without  having  a 
hoof  in  my  silk  stocking  or  plumes  in  my  hat, 
I  am  none  the  less  able  to  entertain  you  with 
this  innocent  phenomenon.  Lean  over  this 
bowl  and  think  intently  of  the  person  you 
wish  to  see ;  living  or  dead,  far  or  near,  she 
will  come  at  your  call  from  the  end  of  the 
world  or  the  depths  of  history." 

The  count  bent  over  the  bowl.  Soon  the 
water  grew  troubled  and  took  on  opalescent 
tints,  as  if  a  drop  of  essence  had  been  poured 
into  it,  and  a  rainbow-hued  ring  encircled  the 
edge  of  the  dish  framing  the  picture  which 


88  TALES  BEFORE  SUPPER. 

already  sketched  itself  beneath  the  creamy 
cloud. 

The  mist  faded.  Through  the  now  trans- 
parent water  a  young  woman  was  revealed. 
Her  loose  gown  was  of  lace,  her  eyes  sea 
green,  her  hair  wavy  and  golden.  Over  the 
ivory  keys  of  a  piano  her  lovely  hands  strayed 
like  white  butterflies.  The  picture  was  so 
marvelous  in  its  perfection  that  at  sight  of  it 
artists  might  have  died  of  despair.  It  was 
Prascovie  Labinska,  who,  unconsciously, 
obeyed  the  passionate  invocation  of  the  count. 

"  And  now  let  us  pass  to  something  more 
curious,"  said  the  physician,  grasping  the 
count's  hand  and  placing  it  on  one  of  the  rods 
belonging  to  the  mesmeric  bucket.  Olaf  had 
no  sooner  touched  the  metal  charged  with  an 
overpowering  magnetism  than  he  fell  stunned 
to  the  floor. 

Taking  him  in  his  arms,  the  physician  lifted 
him  up,  laid  him  on  the  divan,  rang,  and  said 
to  the  servant  who  appeared  at  the  door,  — 

"Go  find  M.  Octave  de  Saville." 


VI. 

IN  a  little  while  the  wheels  of  a  carriage 
resounded  in  the  silent  courtyard  of  the  hotel, 
and  almost  simultaneously  Octave  was  an- 


AVATAR.  89 

nounced.  When  M.  Cherbonneau  showed 
him  the  Count  Olaf  Labinski  stretched  on  a 
sofa,  apparently  lifeless,  he  was  stupefied.  At 
first  he  thought  murder  had  been  committed, 
and  was  struck  dumb  with  horror  ;  but,  on  a 
closer  examination,  he  noticed  that  the  chest 
of  the  sleeper  rose  and  fell  with  an  almost 
imperceptible  respiration. 

"  There,"  said  the  physician,  "  there  is  your 
disguise  already  prepared.  It  is  a  little  more 
difficult  to  put  on  than  a  domino ;  but  Romeo, 
in  climbing  to  the  balcony  at  Verona,  did  not 
worry  at  the  danger  he  ran  of  breaking  his 
neck.  He  knew  that  Juliet  awaited  him  in 
the  silence  of  the  night.  The  Countess  Pras- 
covie  Labinska  is  well  worth  the  daughter  of 
the  Capulets." 

Perplexed  by  the  weirdness  of  the  situation, 
Octave  did  not  answer.  His  eyes  were  fixed 
on  the  count,  whose  head  slightly  thrown  back 
on  a  cushion  gave  him  the  appearance  of  one 
of  those  effigies  of  knights  which,  with  their 
stiff  necks  resting  on  a  carved  marble  pillow, 
lie  above  their  tombs  in  Gothic  cloisters.  In 
spite  of  himself,  this  chivalrous  figure,  of 
which  he  was  to  take  possession,  smote  him 
with  remorse. 

The  physician  mistook  Octave's  perplexity 
for  hesitation.  A  vaguely  disdainful  smile 
flitted  across  his  lips,  and  he  said,  — 


9O  TALES  BEFORE  SUPPER. 

"  If  you  are  not  decided  I  can  awaken  the 
count,  who  will  depart  as  he  came,  astonished 
at  my  magnetic  power.  But,  think  it  over  ; 
such  a  chance  may  never  repeat  itself.  Still, 
however  great  my  interest  in  your  love  may  be, 
however  much  I  desire  to  make  an  experiment 
which  has  never  been  attempted  in  Europe, 
I  dare  not  hide  from  you  that  this  exchange 
of  souls  is  perilous.  Question  your  heart. 
Will  you  risk  your  life  in  this  supreme  at- 
tempt ?  The  Bible  says  Love  is  as  strong  as 
death." 

"  I  am  ready,"  Octave  replied  simply. 

"  Very  good,"  cried  the  doctor,  rubbing  his 
shrunken,  brown  hands  together  with  an  ex- 
traordinary rapidity,  as  if  he  wished  to  strike 
fire  in  the  manner  of  savages.  "A  passion 
which  recoils  at  nothing  pleases  me.  There  are 
but  two  things  in  this  world — passion  and  will. 
If  you  are  not  happy  it  will  not  be  my  fault. 
Ah,  Brahma-Logum,  from  the  depths  of  the 
sky  of  Indra,  where  the  Apsaras  surround  you 
with  their  voluptuous  choirs,  you  shall  see  if 
I  have  forgotten  the  irresistible  formula  which 
you  gasped  in  my  ear  on  abandoning  your 
petrified  carcass.  Word  and  gestures,  I  have 
retained  them  all.  To  work !  to  work !  We 
shall  make  in  our  caldron  as  strange  a  mess 
as  the  witches  of  Macbeth,  without,  however, 
the  sorcery  of  the  North.  Take  this  arm-chair 


AVATAR.  91 

in  front  of  me,  and  give  yourself  confidently 
into  my  power.  Good  !  eye  to  eye,  hand  to 
hand.  Already  the  charm  works.  The  sense 
of  time  and  space  is  lost,  consciousness  fades, 
the  eyelids  fall.  The  muscles,  no  longer  com- 
manded by  the  brain,  relax ;  the  mind  is  lulled, 
and  all  the  delicate  threads  which  hold  the 
soul  to  the  body  are  untied.  Brahma  in  the 
golden  egg,  where  he  dreamed  for  ten  thousand 
years,  was  not  farther  from  external  things. 
Now  inundate  him  with  electric  currents, 
bathe  him  in  psychic  emanations." 

While  muttering  these  disjointed  sentences, 
the  physician  did  not  for  an  instant  discon- 
tinue his  passes.  Luminous  rays  flew  from 
his  distended  hands  and  struck  his  patient  on 
the  brow  and  heart,  while  around  him  there 
gathered  slowly  a  sort  of  visible  atmosphere, 
phosphorescent  like  an  aureole. 

"  That  is  perfect !  "  exclaimed  M.  Balthazar 
Cherbonneau,  applauding  himself  for  his  suc- 
cess. "  Now  he  is  as  I  want  him.  But  there," 
he  cried,  after  a  pause,  as  if  he  read  through 
Octave's  skull  the  last  effort  of  his  vanish- 
ing personality,  "  what  is  it  that  still  resists  ? 
What  is  that  mutinous  idea  which,  driven  from 
the  circumvolutions  of  the  brain,  tries  to  es- 
cape my  influence  by  crouching  on  the  primal 
monad,  in  the  sphericity  of  life  ?  But  I  know 
how  to  reach  and  curb  it." 


92  TALES  BEFORE  SUPPER.     ' 

To  master  this  unconscious  opposition  the 
physician  recharged  the  magnetic  battery  of 
his  gaze,  and  caught  the  rebel  thought  between 
the  base  of  the  brain  and  the  insertion  of  the 
spinal  marrow,  the  most  secret  sanctuary,  the 
most  mysterious  tabernacle  of  the  soul.  His 
triumph  was  complete. 

He  next  prepared  himself  with  a  majestic 
solemnity  for  the  surprising  experiment  he  was 
to  attempt.  Robing  himself  in  a  linen  gown 
like  a  Magi,  he  washed  his  hands  in  perfumed 
water.  He  took  from  different  boxes  powders, 
and  smeared  his  brow  and  cheeks  with  hie- 
rarchic designs.  He  encircled  his  arm  with 
the  Brahman  cord,  and  read  two  or  three 
Slokas  of  the  sacred  poems,  omitting  none  of 
the  minute  rites  recommended  by  the  Mahat- 
mas  of  the  isles  of  Elephanta. 

These  ceremonies  terminated,  he  threw  the 
doors  of  the  furnaces  wide  open,  and  soon  the 
room  was  filled  with  an  incandescent  atmos- 
phere, which  would  have  made  tigers  swoon  in 
the  jungle,  cracked  the  cuirass  of  mud  on  the 
hides  of  buffaloes,  and  exploded  aloes  into 
bloom. 

"The  two  sparks  of  divine  fire  which  will 
now  find  themselves  nude  and  divested  for  sev- 
eral seconds  of  their  mortal  envelope  must  not 
pale  or  waver  in  our  icy  air,"  said  the  physician, 
examining  the  thermometer,  which  marked 
120  degrees  Fahrenheit. 


A  VA  TAR.  93 

Between  the  inert  bodies  Dr.  Balthazar 
Cherbonneau,  garmented  in  white,  looked 
like  a  priest  of  one  of  those  sanguinary  reli- 
gions which  throw  the  corpses  of  men  on  the 
altars  of  their  gods.  Indeed,  he  recalled  that 
pontiff  of  Vitziliputzili,  of  whom  Heine  speaks 
in  a  ballad,  though  his  intentions  were  neces- 
sarily more  pacific. 

Presently  he  approached  the  motionless 
count  and  pronounced  the  ineffable  syllable, 
which  he  hastened  to  repeat  to  Octave,  who 
lay  in  a  profound  slumber.  M.  Balthazar 
Cherbonneau's  face,  which  under  ordinary  cir- 
cumstances was  simply  fantastic,  now  assumed 
a  singular  majesty.  The  extent  of  the  power 
which  he  wielded  ennobled  his  irregular  fea- 
tures, and  if  any  one  had  witnessed  the  sacer- 
dotal gravity  with  which  he  accomplished 
these  mysterious  rites  he  would  not  have  rec- 
ognized in  him  the  Hoffmannesque  physician 
who  suggested,  while  defying  the  pencil  of  the 
caricaturist. 

Strange  things  then  came  to  pass :  Octave 
de  Saville  and  Count  Olaf  Labinski  appeared 
to  be  simultaneously  agitated  by  a  convulsion 
of  agony  ;  their  faces,  which  were  of  a  deathly 
pallor,  twitched  nervously,  and  a  slight  froth 
rose  to  their  lips.  Two  small  blue  flames 
scintillated  hesitantly  over  their  heads. 

The  physician  made  an  imperious  gesture, 


94  TALES  BEFORE  SUPPER. 

which  seemed  to  trace  the  way  for  them 
through  the  air,  and  the  two  phosphorescent 
sparks  began  to  move.  They  crossed  to  their 
new  abodes,  leaving  a  trail  of  light  behind 
them.  Octave's  soul  entered  the  body  of 
Count  Labinski,  and  the  count's  soul  entered 
that  of  Octave.  The  avatar  was  accomplished. 

A  flush  of  red  at  the  cheek-bones  showed 
that  life  had  reentered  the  human  clay,  which, 
an  instant  soulless,  would,  without  the  physi- 
cian's power,  have  become  the  prey  of  the 
angel  of  death. 

Cherbonneau's  blue  eyes  gleamed  with  joy 
at  his  triumph,  and  he  said  to  himself,  as  he 
strode  up  and  down  the  room,  "  I  should  like 
to  see  the  most  noted  physicians  do  as  much, 
—  they  who  are  so  proud  of  mending  the 
human  machine  when  it  gets  out  of  order  : 
Hippocrates,  Galen,  Paracelsus,  Van  Helmont, 
Boerhaave,  Tronchin,  Hahnemann,  Rasori,  the 
most  insignificant  Indian  fakir  squatting  on 
the  steps  of  a  pagoda  knows  a  thousand  times 
more  than  you  !  What  matters  the  body  when 
one  can  command  the  spirit  ?  " 

At  the  end  of  his  sentence  Dr.  Balthazar 
Cherbonneau  cut  several  capers  of  exultation, 
and  danced  like  the  hills  in  the  Sir-Hasirim 
of  Solomon  ;  but,  catching  his  foot  in  the  hem 
of  his  Brahman  gown,  he  almost  fell  on  his 
nose,  a  trifling  accident,  which  recalled  him  to 
his  senses  and  calmed  his  excitement. 


A  VA  TAR.  95 

"  Now  to  awake  my  sleeping  friends,"  said 
he,  after  he  had  removed  the  smears  of  the  col- 
ored powder  with  which  he  had  streaked  his 
face,  and  tossed  aside  his  Brahman  costume. 
Placing  himself  before  the  body  of  Count  La- 
binski,  which  contained  Octave's  soul,  he  made 
the  passes  necessary  to  awaken  him  from  his 
somnambulistic  state,  shaking  from  his  fingers 
at  each  gesture  the  electric  fluid  withdrawn. 

After  a  few  minutes  Octave-Labinski  (here- 
after we  will  so  call  him  for  the  clearness 
of  the  story)  rose  on  his  elbow,  rubbed  his 
hands  across  his  eyes,  and  cast  around  him  a 
look  of  astonishment,  not  yet  lighted  by  the 
consciousness  of  self.  When  a  finer  perception 
of  objects  returned  to  him  the  first  thing  he 
noticed  was  his  own  form  placed  quite  away 
from  him  on  a  sofa.  He  saw  himself,  not  re- 
flected by  a  mirror,  but  in  reality.  He  gave  a 
cry,  —  to  his  horror,  this  cry  did  not  resound 
in  his  own  tone  of  voice  ;  the  exchange  of 
souls  having  occurred  during  the  magnetic 
sleep,  he  had  no  recollection  of  it,  and  felt  a 
strange  sense  of  discomfort.  His  mind,  served 
by  new  organs,  was  like  a  workman  whose  ha- 
bitual tools  had  been  taken  away  and  replaced 
by  others.  Psyche,  exiled,  beat  with  restless 
wings  the  vault  of  this  unfamiliar  skull,  and 
lost  herself  in  the  mazes  of  a  brain  in  which 
still  lingered  traces  of  unfamiliar  thoughts. 


g6  TALES  BEFORE  SUPPER. 

When  the  physician  had  sufficiently  enjoyed 
Octave's  surprise  he  said,  "  Well,  how  do  you 
like  your  new  habitation  ?  Is  your  soul  at 
home  in  the  body  of  this  handsome  cavalier, 
hetman,  hospodar,  magnate,  and  husband  of 
the  most  beautiful  woman  in  the  world  ?  You 
no  longer  mean  to  let  yourself  die,  as  was  your 
intention  the  first  time  I  saw  you  in  your 
gloomy  apartment  of  the  Rue  Saint-Lazare 
now  that  the  doors  of  the  Labinski  mansion 
are  open  to  you,  and  you  need  not  fear  that 
Prascovie  will  close  your  mouth  with  her 
hand,  as  in  the  Villa  Salviati,  when  you  wish 
to  speak  of  love.  You  see  now  that  old  Bal- 
thazar Cherbonneau,  in  spite  of  his  hideous 
face, —  which,  by  the  way,  he  can  change  when 
he  wants  to,  —  has  still  rather  good  recipes  in 
his  box  of  tricks." 

"  Doctor,"  replied  Octave-Labinski,  "  you 
have  the  power  of  a  god,  or  at  least  of  a 
demon." 

"  Oh,  oh,  do  not  fear ;  there  is  not  the  slight- 
est deviltry  in  this  !  Your  salvation  is  not  in 
danger.  I  shall  not  make  you  sign  a  compact 
with  a  flourish.  Nothing  could  be  simpler 
than  what  has  happened.  The  Logos  which  has 
created  light  can  surely  displace  a  soul.  If 
men  would  but  hearken  to  God  across  time 
and  infinity  they  would  see  things  even  more 
surprising  than  that." 


AVATAR.  97 

"  With  what  gratitude,  with  what  devotion, 
can  I  acknowledge  this  inestimable  service  ?  " 

"  You  owe  me  nothing.  You  interest  me ; 
and  to  an  old  Lascar  like  myself,  bronzed  by 
every  sun,  hardened  to  every  event,  an  emo- 
tion is  a  rare  occurrence.  You  have  revealed 
love  to  me,  and  you  know  we  dreamers,  who 
are  more  or  less  alchemists,  magicians,  and 
philosophers,  all  seek  the  absolute.  But  get 
up,  move  about,  and  see  if  your  new  skin  is 
uncomfortable." 

Octave-Labinski  obeyed,  and  took  a  turn  or 
two  about  the  room.  Already  he  was  less 
awkward  ;  though  occupied  by  another  soul, 
the  body  of  the  count  retained  the  impulsion 
of  its  ordinary  habits,  and  the  new  guest  con- 
fided himself  to  these  physical  memories,  for 
it  was  important  for  him  to  have  the  walk,  the 
air,  and  the  gestures  of  the  former  proprietor. 

"  Had  I  not  myself  but  just  operated  the 
exchange  of  your  souls,"  Dr.  Balthazar  Cher- 
bonneau  said,  laughing,  "  I  should  think  that 
nothing  unusual  had  happened  during  the 
evening,  and  I  should  take  you  for  the  true, 
legitimate,  and  authentic  Lithuanian  Count 
Olaf  Labinski,  whose  real  self  still  sleeps 
there  in  the  chrysalis  which  you  have  disdain- 
fully discarded.  But  it  will  soon  be  midnight ; 
and  if  you  do  not  want  Prascovie  to  scold  you, 
or  accuse  you  of  preferring  lansquenet  or  bac- 


98  TALES  BEFORE  SUPPER. 

carat  to  her,  you  had  now  better  go.  You  must 
not  begin  your  married  life  with  a  quarrel  ;  it 
would  be  a  bad  omen.  In  the  mean  time,  I  will 
busy  myself  in  awakening  your  former  envelope 
with  all  the  care  and  respect  it  deserves." 

Recognizing  the  importance  of  the  physi- 
cian's suggestion,  Octave-Labinski  hastened  to 
leave.  At  the  foot  of  the  steps  the  count's  mag- 
nificent bay  horses  snorted  with  impatience, 
and  in  champing  their  bits  had  flecked  the 
pavement  about  them  with  froth.  On  Octave's 
appearance  a  superb  green-garbed  groom,  of 
the  lost  race  of  heyduques,  hurried  to  the  car- 
riage-step, which  he  lowered  with  a  bang.  Oc- 
tave, who  had  first  turned  mechanically  towards 
his  modest  brougham,  installed  himself  in  the 
splendid  vehicle,  and  said  to  the  chasseur,  who 
flung  the  order  to  the  coachman,  "  Home  !  " 
The  door  was  hardly  closed  when  the  horses 
started,  and  the  descendant  of  Almanzors  and 
Azolans,  aided  by  the  large  cords,  swung  him- 
self up  behind  with  a  lightness  one  would  not 
have  expected  of  his  immense  size. 

The  distance  between  the  Rue  du  Regard 
and  the  Faubourg  Saint-Honore  is  not  long ; 
it  was  covered  in  a  few  minutes ;  and  presently 
the  huge  portals  of  the  mansion  opened  and 
gave  way  for  the  carriage,  which  swept  about 
a  large  graveled  courtyard,  and  stopped  with 
remarkable  precision  under  a  pink-and-white 
striped  awning. 


AVATAR.  99 

The  courtyard  was  vast.  Octave-Labinski 
took  in  the  details  with  that  rapidity  of  vision 
which  the  mind  acquires  on  certain  impor- 
tant occasions.  Surrounded  with  symmetrical 
buildings,  and  lighted  by  bronze  lamp-posts 
of  which  the  gas  darted  white  tongues  of  flame 
into  crystal  lanterns  resembling  those  that  in 
olden  times  ornamented  the  Bucentaur,  the 
Labinski  mansion  looked  more  like  a  palace 
than  a  mere  house.  Boxes  of  orange  trees, 
worthy  of  the  terrace  at  Versailles,  stood  at 
equal  distances  along  the  edge  of  the  asphalt, 
which  framed,  like  a  border,  the  carpet  of  turf 
forming  the  centre. 

The  transformed  lover,  on  setting  his  foot 
on  the  threshold,  was  obliged  to  pause  an  in- 
stant and  press  his  hand  to  his  heart  to  still 
its  beating.  He  had,  indeed,  the  body  of  Count 
Olaf  Labinski,  but  he  possessed  only  its  phys- 
ical attributes  ;  all  the  ideas  belonging  to  the 
brain  had  flown  with  the  soul  of  its  first  pro- 
prietor, —  this  house,  which  was  henceforth  to 
be  his,  was  strange  to  him ;  he  was  even  igno- 
rant of  its  interior  arrangements.  A  staircase 
rose  before  him ;  he  followed  where  it  led, 
determined  to  attribute  to  abstraction  any 
mistake  he  might  make.  The  polished  stone 
steps  shone  brilliantly,  and  threw  into  relief 
the  opulent  crimson  of  the  broad  strip  of  vel- 
vet carpet,  which,  held  in  place  by  rods  of 


IOO  TALES  BEFORE  SUPPER. 

gilded  brass,  traced  the  way  softly  underfoot. 
Stands,  filled  with  beautiful  exotic  plants,  lined 
the  stair.  An  immense  windowed  lantern,  sus- 
pended by  a  heavy  rope  of  knotted  and  tas- 
seled  purple  silk,  flashed  golden  shimmers  over 
the  stucco  walls,  smooth  and  white  as  marble, 
and  threw  a  flood  of  light  on  a  reproduction 
of  one  of  Canova's  most  celebrated  groups, 
Cupid  embracing  Psyche. 

The  landing  of  the  first  and  only  story  was 
paved  with  mosaics  of  costly  design,  and  on 
the  walls,  hung  by  silken  cords,  were  four  pic- 
tures, the  work  of  Paris  Bordone,  Bonifazzio, 
Palma  the  elder,  and  Paul  Veronese,  whose 
architectural  and  pompous  style  harmonized 
tvith  the  magnificence  of  the  staircase. 

A  high  baize  door,  studded  with  gold  nails, 
opened  on  the  landing.  Octave  -  Labinski 
pushed  it,  and  found  himself  in  a  large  ante- 
chamber, where  drowsed  several  liveried  foot- 
men, who  at  his  approach  rose  as  if  on  springs, 
and  ranged  themselves  along  the  walls  with 
the  impassibility  of  Oriental  slaves.  He  passed 
on.  A  white- an d-gold  drawing-room  succeeded 
the  antechamber,  but  there  was  no  one  in  it. 
Octave  rang  a  bell.  A  maid  appeared. 

"  Can  madame  receive  me  ?  " 

"  Her  ladyship  is  undressing,  but  she  will 
be  visible  presently." 


AVATAR.  101 


VII. 

LEFT  alone  with  the  body  of  Octave  de 
Saville,  which  the  soul  of  Count  Olaf  Labinski 
inhabited,  Dr.  Balthazar  Cherbonneau  set 
himself  to  work  to  bring  it  back  to  every-day 
life.  After  a  few  passes  Olaf-de  Saville  (we 
must  now  unite  these  two  names  to  desig- 
nate a  double  personage)  came  out  of  the  pro- 
found slumber,  or  rather  catalepsy,  which  had 
chained  him,  like  a  spectre  from  Hades,  stiff 
and  motionless,  to  the  sofa.  He  rose  with  an 
automatic  movement,  undirected  as  yet  by  the 
will,  and  staggered  from  dizziness.  Objects 
swayed  about  him  ;  the  incarnations  of  Vishnu 
on  the  walls  danced  a  saraband.  Dr.  Cher- 
bonneau, waving  his  arms  like  wings,  and 
rolling  his  blue  eyes  in  wrinkled,  brown  or- 
bits which  looked  like  the  rims  of  spectacles, 
appeared  to  him  as  the  Mahatma  of  Elephanta. 
The  weird  sights  at  which  he  had  assisted  be- 
fore falling  into  the  mesmeric  trance  reacted 
on  his  reason,  and  he  grasped  reality  slowly. 
He  resembled  a  sleeper  suddenly  awakened 
from  a  nightmare,  who  mistakes  the  clothes 
scattered  over  the  furniture  for  vague,  human 
shapes,  and  thinks  the  brass  curtain  knobs, 
shining  with  the  reflection  of  the  night-light, 
are  the  flaming  eyes  of  cyclops. 


102  TALES  BEFORE  SUPPER. 

Little  by  little  this  phantasmagoria  evapo- 
rated, and  things  resumed  their  natural  aspect ; 
M.  Balthazar  Cherbonneau  was  no  longer  an 
Indian  fakir,  but  a  plain  doctor  of  medicine, 
who  smiled  at  his  patient  with  commonplace 
good  nature. 

"  Are  you  satisfied,  sir,"  he  said,  in  a  tone 
of  obsequious  humility,  in  which  could  be  dis- 
cerned a  shade  of  irony ;  "  are  you  satisfied 
with  the  experiments  which  I  have  had  the 
honor  to  make  before  you?  I  dare  to  hope 
that  you  will  not  much  regret  your  evening, 
and  that  you  will  leave  here  convinced  that 
all  that  is  told  of  magnetism  is  not,  as  official 
science  affirms,  mere  fable  and  jugglery." 

Olaf-de  Saville  nodded  assent,  and  left  the 
apartment  accompanied  by  Dr.  Cherbonneau, 
who  made  him  a  low  bow  at  each  door. 

The  brougham  drove  up,  grazing  the  steps, 
and  the  soul  of  the  Countess  Labinska's  hus- 
band, which  inhabited  Octave  de  Saville's  body, 
entered  it  without  noticing  that  neither  the  liv- 
ery nor  the  carriage  was  his. 

The  coachman  asked  where  his  master  wished 
to  go. 

"  Home,"  answered  Olaf-de  Saville,  con- 
fusedly, astonished  at  not  hearing  the  voice  of 
the  chasseur  who  usually  asked  him  this  ques- 
tion with  a  most  pronounced  Hungarian  ac- 
cent The  brougham  in  which  he  found  him- 


AVATAR.  IO3 

self  was  upholstered  with  dark-blue  damask ; 
his  own  coupe  was  lined  with  buttercup  col- 
ored satin,  and  the  count,  though  surprised, 
accepted  it  all  much  as  one  does  in  a  dream 
where  ordinary  objects  present  themselves  un- 
der strange  aspects  without  however  ceasing  to 
be  recognizable.  He  felt  smaller  than  usual  , 
also,  it  seemed  to  him  he  had  gone  to  the  physi- 
cian's in  evening  dress ;  yet,  without  remem- 
brance of  having  changed  his  clothes,  he  saw 
that  he  wore  a  summer  suit  of  thin  material, 
which  had  never  formed -part  of  his  wardrobe. 
His  mind  was  confused,  and  his  thoughts,  so 
lucid  in  the  morning,  unraveled  themselves 
laboriously.  Attributing  this  singular  state  to 
the  weird  scenes  of  the  evening,  he  thought 
no  more  of  it ;  and  leaning  his  head  against 
the  side  of  the  carriage,  he  drifted  into  an 
undefined  reverie,  a  vague  dreaminess,  which 
was  neither  waking  nor  sleeping. 

The  sudden  halt  of  the  horse,  and  the  coach- 
man's voice  shouting  "  Gate  !  "  recalled  him 
to  himself ;  he  lowered  the  window,  put  out 
his  head,  and  saw  by  the  light  of  a  lamp  an 
unfamiliar  street,  and  a  house  which  was  not 
his  own. 

"  Where  the  devil  have  you  brought  me, 
fool  ?  "  he  cried  ;  "  are  we  in  the  Faubourg 
Saint-Honore,  —  Hotel  Labinski  ?  " 

"  Excuse   me,  sir ;  I  did  not  understand," 


IO4  TALES  BEFORE  SUPPER. 

muttered  the  coachman,  turning  his  horse  in 
the  direction  indicated. 

During  the  transit  the  transformed  count 
asked  himself  several  questions  which  he  was 
unable  to  answer.  Why  had  his  own  carriage 
left  without  him,  since  he  had  ordered  it  to 
wait  ?  Why  did  he  find  himself  in  some  one 
else's.  For  the  moment  he  fancied  that  the 
clearness  of  his  perceptions  must  be  obscured 
by  fever,  or  perhaps  that  the  thaumaturgistic 
doctor,  to  impress  his  credulity  more  keenly, 
had  made  him  inhale  in  his  sleep  hashish  or 
some  other  hallucinating  drug,  whose  illusions 
would  be  dispelled  by  a  night's  rest. 

The  carriage  reached  the  Labinski  mansion. 
The  Suisse,  when  summoned,  refused  to  open 
the  door,  saying  it  was  not  a  reception  even- 
ing, and  adding  that  his  master  had  returned 
an  hour  ago,  and  her  ladyship  had  retired. 

"  Fool,  are  you  drunk  or  crazy  ?  "  cried  Olaf- 
de  Saville,  pushing  aside  the  giant  who  rose 
colossal  from  the  threshold  of  the  half-open 
door,  like  one  of  those  bronze  statues  which, 
in  Arab  tales,  defend  from  wandering  knights 
the  entrance  to  enchanted  castles. 

"  Drunk  or  crazy  yourself,  my  little  gentle- 
man," answered  the  man,  who  from  his  natural 
crimson  turned  purple  with  anger. 

"Scoundrel!"  roared  Olaf-de  Saville,  "did 
I  not  respect  myself  "  — 


AVATAR.  105 

"  Be  quiet,  or  I  will  break  you  across  my  knee 
and  throw  the  pieces  on  the  sidewalk,"  replied 
the  giant,  opening  a  hand  larger  than  the  huge 
plaster  hand  in  the  glove  shop  of  the  Rue 
Richelieu  ;  "  you  must  not  be  ugly  with  me,  my 
little  man,  because  you  have  drunk  too  much 
champagne." 

Olaf-de  Saville,  exasperated,  shoved  the 
Suisse  so  fiercely  that  he  got  by  under  the 
porch.  Several  footmen  who  were  still  up  ran 
forward  at  the  noise  of  the  altercation. 

"  I  discharge  you,  stupid  animal,  wretch,  vil- 
lain !  You  shall  not  even  spend  the  night  in 
the  house.  Go,  or  I  will  kill  you  as  I  would  a 
mad  dog.  Do  not  force  me  to  spill  the  base 
blood  of  a  lackey." 

And  the  count,  dispossessed  of  his  body, 
with  blood-shot  eyes,  foaming  lips,  and  clinched 
hands,  rushed  at  the  enormous  Suisse,  who 
grasped  his  aggressor's  hands  in  one  of  his 
own,  and  held  them  almost  crushed  in  the  vise 
of  his  short,  thick  fingers,  fleshy  and  knotted 
like  those  of  a  medieval  torturer. 

"There  now,"  said  the  giant,  who,  good- 
natured  enough  in  the  main,  and  fearing  noth- 
ing more  from  his  adversary,  simply  gave  him 
a  shake  or  two  to  keep  him  respectful.  "  There 
now,  is  there  any  sense  in  getting  into  such  a 
state  when  one  is  dressed  like  a  man  of  the 
world,  and  then  come  like  a  rowdy  making  a 


106  TALES  BEFORE  SUPPER. 

racket  at  night  in  respectable  houses  ?  One 
owes  a  certain  consideration  to  wine,  and  that 
which  has  made  you  so  drunk  must  be  famous, 
that  is  why  I  do  not  knock  you  down,  and  I 
shall  just  put  you  gently  out  on  the  sidewalk, 
where  the  watchman  will  pick  you  up  if  you 
continue  your  uproar.  A  breath  of  prison  air 
will  sharpen  your  wits." 

"  Rascals,"  cried  Olaf-de  Saville  to  the  as- 
sembled lackeys,  "  you  allow  this  low  varlet  to 
insult  your  master,  the  noble  Count  Labin- 
ski !  " 

At  this  name  the  footmen  with  one  accord 
gave  a  loud  shout ;  a  burst  of  laughter,  Homeric 
and  convulsive,  lifted  their  galloon  -  covered 
chests. 

"  This  little  gentleman  who  thinks  himself 
the  Count  Labinski !  ha,  ha,  ha  !  the  idea  is 
good ! " 

An  icy  sweat  broke  out  on  Olaf-de  Saville's 
temples.  A  sharp  thought  pierced  his  brain 
like  a  dagger,  and  he  felt  the  marrow  freeze  in 
his  bones.  Was  Smarra's  knee  on  his  chest, 
or  was  this  real  life  ?  Had  his  reason  foun- 
dered in  the  bottomless  sea  of  magnetism, 
or  was  he  the  plaything  of  some  diabolical 
machination  ?  Not  one  of  his  servants,  so  trem- 
bling, so  submissive,  so  prostrate  before  him, 
recognized  their  master.  Had  his  body  been 
changed  as  well  as  his  clothing  and  carriage  ? 


AVATAR.  lO/ 

"That  you  may  be  very  sure  of  not  being 
the  Count  Labinski,"  said  one  of  the  most  in- 
solent of  the  group,  "  look,  there  he  is,  aroused 
by  your  clamor,  descending  the  steps  him- 
self." 

The  Suisse's  captive  turned  his  eyes  towards 
the  end  of  the  court,  and  saw,  erect  under  the 
awning  of  the  marquise,  a  slender,  graceful 
young  man,  with  oval  face,  black  eyes,  aquiline 
nose,  and  slight  mustache,  a  young  man  who 
was  none  other  than  himself,  or  else  his  own 
ghost  modeled  by  the  devil  with  delusive  cun- 
ning. 

The  Suisse  dropped  the  hands  which  he  held 
imprisoned.  The  lackeys  ranged  themselves 
respectfully  against  the  wall,  and  with  lowered 
eyes,  hanging  hands,  in  an  absolute  immobility, 
like  pages  at  the  approach  of  the  Sultan,  they 
rendered  to  this  phantom  the  honors  which 
the  real  count  was  denied. 

Prascovie's  husband,  though  brave  as  a  Slav, 
a  term  which  implies  everything,  felt  an  un- 
speakable terror  at  the  approach  of  this  Me- 
nechme,  who  in  mingling  with  real  life  and 
making  his  double  unrecognizable  was  far 
more  terrible  than  on  the  stage.  An  ancient 
family  legend  came  to  his  mind  and  increased 
his  dread.  Each  time  a  Labinski  was  to  die, 
he  was  warned  by  the  appearance  of  a  phan- 
tom exactly  similar  to  himself.  Among  north- 


IO8  TALES  BEFORE  SUPPER. 

ern  nations  to  see  one's  double,  even  in  a 
dream,  is  always  regarded  as  a  fatal  omen, 
and  the  intrepid  warrior  of  the  Caucasus,  at 
the  aspect  of  this  external  vision  of  his  own 
self,  was  seized  with  an  insurmountable  super- 
stitious horror.  He  who  would  have  plunged 
his  arm  in  the  mouth  of  a  loaded  cannon  re- 
coiled at  sight  of  himself. 

Octave-Labinski  advanced  toward  his  former 
body,  in  which  the  count's  indignant  soul  was 
struggling  and  shivering,  and  said,  in  a  tone 
of  cold  and  haughty  politeness,  — 

"  Sir,  do  not  compromise  yourself  with  these 
servants.  The  Count  Labinski,  if  you  wish  to 
speak  to  him,  is  visible  from  noon  until  two 
o'clock.  The  countess  receives  on  Thursdays 
those  who  have  had  the  honor  to  be  presented 
to  her." 

Having  uttered  these  sentences  slowly,  and 
emphasized  each  syllable,  the  pseudo- count 
quietly  withdrew,  and  the  doors  closed  behind 
him. 

Olaf-de  Saville  was  put  in  his  carriage  un- 
conscious. When  he  came  to  his  senses  he 
was  lying  on  a  bed  unlike  his  own  in  shape, 
in  a  room  which  he  did  not  remember  ever  to 
have  entered.  At  his  side  stood  a  strange 
servant,  who  raised  his  head  and  made  him 
smell  a  bottle  of  salts.  "  Do  you  feel  better, 
sir  ? "  Jean  asked  the  count,  whom  he  took 
for  his  master. 


AVATAR.  109 

"  Yes,"  answered  Olaf-de  Saville  ;  "  it  was 
nothing  but  a  momentary  faintness." 

"  Shall  I  leave  you,  sir,  or  had  I  better  sit 
up  ?  " 

"  No,  leave  me  ;  but,  before  going,  light  the 
candelabra  by  the  mirror." 

"  You  are  not  afraid,  sir,  that  the  light  will 
prevent  your  sleeping  ?  " 

"  Not  at  all  ;  besides,  I  am  not  yet  sleepy." 

"  I  shall  not  go  to  bed,  sir,"  said  Jean,  in- 
wardly alarmed  at  the  count's  pallor  and  drawn 
features,  "  and  if  you  need  anything  I  will  come 
at  the  first  sound  of  the  bell." 

When  Jean,  after  lighting  the  candles,  had 
gone,  the  count  hurried  to  the  mirror,  and  in 
the  clear  glass  where  the  scintillations  of  the 
lights  flickered  he  saw  the  face  of  a  young 
man  that  was  sad  and  gentle,  he  saw  abundant 
black  hair,  eyes  of  a  sombre  azure,  and  pale 
cheeks  covered  with  a  dark,  silky  beard.  In 
fact,  a  visage  which  was  not  his  own,  and 
which  gazed  at  him  from  the  depths  of  the 
mirror  with  an  air  of  surprise.  At  first  he 
tried  to  believe  that  some  practical  joker  was 
framing  his  face  in  the  brass  and  inlaid  moth- 
er-of-pearl border  of  the  Venetian  mirror.  He 
felt  behind  it ;  there  was  no  one. 

His  hands,  which  he  then  examined,  were 
longer,  thinner,  and  more  veined  than  his  own. 
On  the  fourth  finger  projected  a  heavy  gold 


I IO  TALES  BEFORE  SUPPER. 

ring  with  a  seal,  on  which  was  engraved  a  coat- 
of-arms,  —  a  shield  divided,  gules  and  silver, 
surmounted  by  a  baron's  crown.  This  ring 
had  never  belonged  to  the  count,  who  wore 
one  that  bore  an  eagle  displayed  in  sable,  and 
for  crest  a  pearled  coronet.  He  searched  his 
pockets  and  drew  out  a  small  card-case  con- 
taining visiting  cards  with  the  name  :  "  Octave 
de  Saville." 

The  laughter  of  the  lackeys  at  the  Hotel 
Labinski,  the  apparition  of  his  double,  the  un- 
known physiognomy  substituted  for  his  own  re- 
flection in  the  mirror,  all  this  might  possibly  be 
the  illusions  of  a  disordered  brain ;  but  these 
different  clothes,  the  ring  which  he  took  from 
his  finger,  were  material,  palpable  proofs,  evi- 
dence not  to  be  denied.  A  complete  meta- 
morphosis had  taken  place  in  him  without  his 
knowledge.  A  magician,  without  doubt,  a 
devil  perhaps,  had  stolen  from  him  his  form, 
his  nobility,  his  name,  his  whole  personality, 
leaving  him  only  his  soul  without  means  to 
manifest  it.  The  fantastic  stories  of  Pierre 
Schlemil  and  the  Tale  of  Saint  Sylvester's 
Night  came  to  his  mind.  But  La  Motte-Fouque 
and  Hoffmann's  characters  had  only  lost  the 
one  his  shadow,  and  the  other  his  reflection, 
and  if  this  strange  loss  of  a  projection  which 
every  one  possesses  inspired  vexatious  suspi- 
cions, at  least  no  one  denied  that  they  were 
themselves. 


A  VA  TAR.  Ill 

The  count's  position  was  far  worse.  He 
could  not  claim  his  own  title  with  the  body  in 
which  he  was  now  imprisoned.  In  the  eyes  of 
the  world  he  would  pass  for  an  impudent  im- 
postor, or  at  least  for  a  madman.  In  this  de- 
ceitful envelope  even  his  wife  would  disown 
him.  How  could  he  prove  to  her  his  identity  ? 
Yet  surely  there  were  a  thousand  familiar 
events,  a  thousand  intimate  details  unknown 
to  every  one  else,  which,  recalled  to  Prascovie, 
would  make  her  recognize  her  husband's  soul 
in  this  disguise  ;  but  of  what  use  would  her 
recognition  be  even  if  he  obtained  it,  against 
the  verdict  of  the  world  ? 

He  was  really  and  absolutely  dispossessed 
of  his  self.  And  he  had  another  anxiety.  Was 
his  transformation  limited  to  the  exterior 
change  of  figure  and  features,  or  did  he  really 
inhabit  the  body  of  another  ?  In  this  case, 
what  had  been  done  with  his  own?  Had  a 
lime  pit  consumed  it,  or  had  it  become  the 
property  of  some  bold  marauder  ?  The  double 
seen  at  the  Hotel  Labinski  could  be  a  spectre, 
a  vision  perhaps,  but  it  might  also  be  a  physi- 
cal being,  installed  in  the  skin  which  that  fakir- 
faced  physician  had  stolen  from  him  with  in- 
fernal skill. 

A  frightful  idea  stung  his  heart  like  a  vi- 
per's fang :  "  But  this  fictitious  Count  Labinski 
pressed  into  my  shape  by  the  devil's  hands, 


112  TALES  BEFORE  SUPPER. 

this  vampire  who  is  now  living  in  my  house, 
whom  my  servants  obey  in  spite  of  me,  per- 
haps at  this  moment  he  is  setting  his  cloven 
hoof  on  the  threshold  of  that  room  where  I 
have  never  entered  less  agitated  than  on  the 
first  night.  And  does  Prascovie  smile  and, 
with  a  divine  blush,  lean  her  charming  head 
on  that  shoulder  marked  by  the  devil's  claw, 
taking  for  me  that  lying  shell,  that  ghoul,  that 
hideous  son  of  night  and  hell?  Shall  I  rush 
to  the  house,  and  setting  it  on  fire,  shout  amid 
the  flames  to  Prascovie  :  '  You  are  deceived  ; 
it  is  not  your  beloved  Olaf  whom  you  press  to 
your  heart  !  You  are  about  to  commit  an 
abominable  crime  which  my  despairing  soul 
will  still  remember  when  Time  is  weary  of 
turning  his  hour-glass  ! '  " 

Waves  of  flame  surged  through  the  count's 
brain.  He  gave  inarticulate  cries  of  rage, 
gnawed  his  knuckles,  and  paced  the  room  like 
a  wild  beast.  Insanity  was  about  to  sub- 
merge the  dim  consciousness  of  self  which 
remained  to  him.  He  ran  to  Octave's  toilet 
table,  filled  a  basin  with  water,  and  plunged 
his  head  into  an  icy  bath. 

His  presence  of  mind  returned.  He  told 
himself  that  the  age  of  magic  and  sorcery 
was  past;  that  death  alone  separated  body 
and  soul ;  that  in  the  centre  of  Paris  a  Po- 
lish count  accredited  with  several  millions  at 


AVATAR.  113 

Rothschilds,  related  to  the  best  families,  the 
beloved  husband  of  a  fashionable  woman, 
and  decorated  with  the  Order  of  Saint-Andre', 
could  not  be  juggled  with  in  this  way.  All 
this  was  undoubtedly  but  a  joke,  in  very  bad 
taste,  indeed,  but  still  a  joke  of  M.  Balthazar 
Cherbonneau,  a  joke  which  could  be  explained 
as  naturally  as  the  bugbears  of  Anne  Radcliffe's 
novels.  As  he  was  worn  out  with  fatigue  he 
threw  himself  on  Octave's  bed,  and  fell  into  a 
deep  sleep,  so  heavy  that  it  resembled  death, 
and  which  lasted  until  Jean,  thinking  his  mas- 
ter awake,  came  in  to  lay  the  letters  and  news- 
papers on  the  table. 


VIII. 

THE  count  opened  his  eyes  and  cast  about 
him  an  investigating  look.  He  saw  a  comfort- 
able but  simple  bedroom.  A  carpet,  spotted 
in  imitation  of  a  leopard  skin,  covered  the 
floor,  and  tapestry  curtains,  which  Jean  had 
just  drawn  back,  hung  at  the  windows  and  hid 
the  doors;  on  the  walls  was  a  green  velvet 
paper  simulating  cloth.  A  clock  cut  from  a 
block  of  black  marble,  with  a  metal  dial,  sur- 
mounted by  the  statuette  of  Diana  in  oxidized 
silver  reduced  by  Barbedienne,  and  accom- 
panied by  two  antique  vases  also  in  silver, 


114  TALES  BEFORE  SUPPER. 

decorated  the  mantel,  which  was  of  white  mar- 
ble veined  with  blue.  The  Venetian  mirror  in 
which  the  count  had  discovered  the  previous 
evening  that  he  did  not  possess  his  usual  face, 
and  the  portrait  of  an  old  lady  painted  by 
Flandrin,  without  doubt  Octave's  mother,  were 
the  only  ornaments  of  this  rather  sad,  sedate 
chamber. 

A  divan,  an  arm-chair  near  the  fireplace,  a 
study  table  covered  with  books  and  papers, 
furnished  the  room  comfortably,  but  in  no  wise 
recalled  the  sumptuousness  of  the  Hotel  La- 
binski. 

"  Will  you  get  up,  sir  ? "  said  Jean  in  tht 
careful  voice  which  he  had  adopted  during 
Octave's  illness,  as  he  handed  ^he  count  the 
silk  shirt,  flannel  trousers,  and  Algerian  gan- 
doura,  which  formed  his  master's  morning  cos- 
tume. Though  the  count  revolted  at  putting 
on  a  stranger's  clothes,  he  was  obliged  to  ac- 
cept those  Jean  offered  him  or  remain  naked  ; 
s'o  he  put  his  feet  down  on  the  soft  black  bear- 
skin rug  at  the  side  of  the  bed. 

His  toilet  was  soon  finished,  and  Jean,  with- 
out appearing  to  have  the  least  doubt  as  to 
the  identity  of  the  false  Octave  de  Saville 
whom  he  helped  to  dress,  asked  him,  "At 
what  hour  will  you  breakfast,  sir  ?  " 

"  At  the  usual  hour,"  replied  the  count,  who 
had  resolved  to  outwardly  accept  his  incom- 


AVATAR.  115 

prehensible  transformation  so  as  not  to  raise 
obstacles  to  the  steps  he  intended  to  take  to 
recover  his  personality. 

Jean  left  the  room,  and  Olaf-de  Saville 
opened  the  two  letters  which  had  come  with 
the  newspapers,  hoping  to  get  from  them  some 
information.  The  first  contained  friendly  re- 
proaches, and  complained  that  the  old  habits 
of  comradeship  were  interrupted  without  mo- 
tive ;  it  was  signed  with  a  name  unknown  to 
him.  The  second  was  from  Octave's  lawyer, 
and  urged  him  to  come  and  draw  a  quarter's 
income  long  due  him,  or  at  least  to  designate 
an  investment  for  this  money  which  was  lying 
unproductive. 

"  So  it  seems,"  the  count  said  to  himself, 
"that  the  Octave  de  Saville  whose  body  I 
occupy  much  against  my  will  really  exists. 
He  is  not  a  fanciful  being,  a  character  of 
Achim  Arnim  or  of  Cle'ment  Brentano :  he 
has  an  apartment,  friends,  a  lawyer,  an  in- 
come greater  than  his  wants,  in  fact  everything 
which  constitutes  the  legal  status  of  a  gentle- 
man. Nevertheless,  it  seems  to  me  I  am  the 
Count  Olaf  Labinski." 

A  glance  in  the  mirror  convinced  him  that 
this  opinion  would  be  shared  by  no  one ;  the 
reflection  was  the  same  by  the  clear  daylight 
as  by  the  uncertain  flicker  of  the  candles. 

In  continuing  the  domiciliary  visit  he  opened 


Il6  TALES  BEFORE  SUPPER. 

the  drawers  of  the  table  :  in  one  he  found  title 
deeds  of  property,  two  one  -  thousand  franc 
notes,  and  fifty  louis,  which  latter  he  appro- 
priated without  scruple  for  the  needs  of  the 
campaign  which  he  was  about  to  begin ;  while 
in  the  other  drawer  he  noticed  a  Russian 
leather  portfolio  closed  by  a  patent  lock. 

Jean  entered  announcing  M.  Alfred  Hum- 
bert, who  rushed  into  the  room  with  the  fa- 
miliarity of  an  old  friend  without  waiting  till 
the  servant  returned  with  his  master's  answer. 

"  Good  morning,  Octave,"  said  the  new- 
comer, a  handsome  young  man  with  a  frank, 
cordial  manner ;  "  what  are  you  up  to,  what  has 
become  of  you,  are  you  dead  or  alive  ?  No 
one  sees  you ;  I  write,  you  do  not  answer.  I 
should  avoid  you,  but  I  have  no  false  pride  in 
matters  of  affection,  and  I  come  to  see  how 
you  are.  Good  heavens !  I  cannot  let  a  col- 
lege friend  die  of  melancholy  in  the  depths  of 
this  apartment  which  is  as  lugubrious  as  one 
of  Charles  the  Fifth's  cells  in  the  Yuste  Mon- 
astery. You  imagine  you  are  ill,  but  you  are 
bored,  that  is  all.  I  shall  force  you  to  dis- 
tract yourself,  and  I  mean  to  play  the  despot 
and  take  you  to  a  jolly  breakfast  in  which  Gus- 
tave  Raimbaud  buries  his  bachelor  freedom." 

Uttering  this  tirade  in  a  half  angry,  half  hu- 
morous tone,  he  took  the  count's  hand  in  his 
and  shook  it  vigorously. 


AVATAR.  117 

"  No,"  answered  Prascovie's  husband,  enter- 
ing into  the  spirit  of  his  part,  "I  am  even 
more  indisposed  to-day  than  usual ;  I  am  not 
in  good  condition ;  I  should  sadden  and  de- 
press you." 

"  It  is  true  you  are  pale  and  you  look  tired. 
I  will  wait  for  a  more  favorable  occasion.  I 
am  off,  for  I  am  late  for  three  dozen  oysters 
and  a  bottle  of  Sauterne,"  said  Alfred,  going 
towards  the  door.  "  Raimbaud  will  be  sorry 
not  to  see  you." 

This  visit  increased  the  count's  depression. 
Jean  took  him  for  his  master,  Alfred  for  his 
friend.  A  last  trial  awaited  him.  The  door 
opened,  and  a  lady  whose  hair  was  streaked 
with  gray,  and  who  in  the  most  striking  man- 
ner resembled  the  portrait  on  the  wall,  en- 
tered the  room,  took  a  seat  on  the  sofa,  and 
said  to  the  count,  — 

"  How  are  you,  my  poor  Octave  ?  Jean  has 
told  me  that  you  came  in  late  yesterday  in  a 
state  of  alarming  weakness ;  do  take  care  of 
yourself,  my  dear  son,  for  you  know  how 
much  I  love  you  notwithstanding  the  grief 
caused  me  by  this  inexplicable  melancholy,  the 
secret  of  which  you  have  never  been  willing 
to  confide." 

"Fear  nothing,  mother,  it  is  not  serious," 
replied  Olaf-de  Saville ;  "  I  am  much  better 
to-day." 


Il8  TALES  BEFORE  SUPPER. 

Reassured,  Mme.  de  Saville  rose  and  de- 
parted, not  wishing  to  annoy  her  son,  who, 
she  knew,  disliked  to  be  long  disturbed  in  his 
solitude. 

"  Now  I  am  decidedly  Octave  de  Saviile," 
cried  the  count  when  the  old  lady  had  gone ; 
"  his  mother  recognizes  me,  and  does  not 
divine  a  stranger  under  her  son's  epidermis. 
Perhaps  I  am  then  forever  immured  in  this 
envelope.  What  a  curious  prison  for  a  soul 
is  the  body  of  another !  It  is  hard  though  to 
renounce  being  the  Count  Olaf  LabinsU,  to 
lose  his  coat-of-arms,  his  wife,  his  fortune,  and 
to  be  reduced  to  a  miserable  commonplace 
existence.  Oh !  to  get  out  of  it  I  would  tear 
this  skin  of  Nessus  which  clings  to  me,  and  I 
would  return  it  to  its  owner  in  a  thousand 
shreds.  Shall  I  go  back  to  the  hotel  ?  No ! 
—  I  should  make  a  terrible  scandal,  and  the 
Suisse  would  throw  me  out,  for  I  have  no 
strength  in  this  invalid's  dressing-gown.  I 
must  think,  and  look  about  me,  for  I  must 
know  something  about  the  life  of  this  Octave 
de  Saville  who  is  at  present  myself." 

He  tried  to  open  the  portfolio.  Touched 
by  chance  the  spring  yielded,  and  the  count 
drew  from  the  leather  pockets  first  a  number 
of  sheets  of  paper  blackened  with  fine,  close 
writing,  and  then  a  square  of  vellum.  On 
this  an  unskilled  but  faithful  hand  had  drawn, 


AVATAR.  119 

with  love's  memory  and  a  resemblance  not 
always  attained  by  great  artists,  a  crayon 
portrait  which  it  was  impossible  not  to  rec- 
ognize at  the  first  glance.  It  was  the  Countess 
Prascovie  Labinska ! 

At  this  discovery  the  count  was  stupefied. 
A  feeling  of  furious  jealousy  succeeded  his 
surprise ;  how  did  the  countess's  portrait  come 
to  be  in  the  private  portfolio  of  this  strange 
young  man  ?  how  did  he  get  it  ?  who  had  made 
it?  who  had  given  it  to  him?  Had  the  reli- 
giously adored  Prascovie  descended  from  her 
sky  of  love  to  a  vulgar  intrigue  ?  What  infer- 
nal jest  incarnated  him,  the  husband,  in  the 
body  of  the  lover  of  this  woman,  till  then 
believed  so  pure  ?  After  being  the  husband, 
he  was  to  be  the  lover !  Sarcastic  metamor- 
phosis, a  reversal  of  position  sufficient  to  turn 
one's  brain,  he  might  trick  himself,  be  at  the 
same  time  Clitandre  and  Georges  Dandin ! 
All  these  ideas  buzzed  tumultuously  in  his 
mind ;  he  felt  he  was  losing  his  reason,  and 
he  made  a  supreme  effort  of  will  to  regain 
a  little  composure.  Without  hearing  Jean 
announce  that  breakfast  was  ready,  he  con- 
tinued with  nervous  trepidation  the  examina- 
tion of  the  mysterious  portfolio. 

The  leaves  composed  a  sort  of  psychologi- 
cal journal,  abandoned  and  resumed  at  differ- 
ent intervals.  Here  are  several  fragments 
devoured  by  the  count  with  anxious  curiosity. 


I2O  TALES  BEFORE  SUPPER. 

"  She  will  never  love  me,  never,  never  !  I 
have  read  in  her  soft  eyes  the  cruel  sentence 
than  which  Dante  could  find  nothing  more 
severe  to  inscribe  on  the  bronze  gates  of  the 
CitiDoknte:  'Lose  all  hope.'  What  have  I 
done  to  God  to  be  damned  alive  ?  To-morrow, 
after  to-morrow,  always,  it  will  be  the  same. 
The  planets  may  intercross  their  orbits,  the 
stars  in  conjunction  may  knot,  but  nothing 
in  my  destiny  will  change.  With  a  word 
she  has  dispelled  the  dream ;  with  a  gesture 
broken  the  chimera's  wings.  The  fabulous 
combinations  of  the  impossible  offer  me  no 
chance ;  the  numbers  thrown  a  million  times 
in  fortune's  wheel  will  never  come  up,  —  there 
is  no  winning  number  for  me  ! 

"  Fool  that  I  am  !  I  know  that  paradise 
is  closed  to  me,  and  I  sit  stupidly  on  the 
threshold,  with  my  back  against  the  door 
which  will  not  open,  and  I  weep  silently,  with- 
out violence,  without  effort,  as  if  my  eyes  were 
living  springs.  I  have  not  the  courage  to  rise 
and  plunge  into  the  immense  desert  or  into  the 
tumultuous  Babel  of  men. 

"When,  sometimes,  in  the  night  I  cannot 
sleep,  I  think  of  Prascovie ;  if  I  sleep  I  dream 
of  her.  Oh,  how  beautiful  she  was  that  day 
in  the  garden  of  the  Villa  Salviati,  at  Flor- 
ence !  That  white  dress  with  the  black  rib- 
bons, it  was  charming  and  funereal !  The 


AVATAR.  121 

white  for  her,  the  black  for  me !  Now  and 
then  the  ribbons  stirred  by  the  breeze  formed 
a  cross  on  the  background  of  startling  white, 
an  invisible  spirit  was  murmuring  the  death 
mass  of  my  heart. 

"  Should  some  surprising  catastrophe  tiara 
my  brow  with  the  crown  of  an  emperor  or  ca- 
liph, should  the  earth  bleed  for  me  her  veins 
of  gold,  should  the  diamond  mines  of  Gol- 
conda  and  of  Visiapour  allow  me  to  dig  in 
their  sparkling  galleries,  should  Byron's  lyre 
resound  under  my  fingers,  should  the  most  per- 
fect works  of  antique  and  modern  art  lend  me 
their  charms,  should  I  discover  a  new  world, 
well,  for  all  that  I  would  not  be  further  ad- 
vanced ! 

"  On  what  a  thread  hangs  fate !  If  I  had  had 
the  desire  to  go  to  Constantinople  I  should 
not  have  met  her;  I  stay  in  Florence,  I  see 
her,  and  I  die. 

"  I  should  have  killed  myself,  but  she 
breathes  the  air  in  which  I  live,  and  perhaps 
my  covetous  lip  may  seize  —  oh,  ineffable  joy  ! 
—  a  distant  emanation  of  that  perfumed 
breath.  And,  besides,  my  guilty  soul  would 
be  assigned  to  an  exile's  planet,  and  I  should 
lose  the  chance  to  make  her  love  me  in  an- 
other life.  To  be  separated  there,  she  in 
paradise,  I  in  hell :  oh,  maddening  thought ! 

"  Why  must  I  love  precisely  the  one  woman 


122  TALES  BEFORE  SUPPER. 

who  cannot  love  me  !  Others,  called  beauti- 
ful, who  were  free,  smiled  on  me  with  their 
tenderest  smiles,  and  seemed  to  invite  an 
avowal  which  did  not  come.  Oh,  how  happy 
is  he !  What  sublimity  of  former  life  does 
God  recompense  in  him  by  the  magnificent 
gift  of  her  love  ?  " 

It  was  unnecessary  to  read  further.  The 
suspicion  which  the  count  had  conceived  at 
sight  of  Prascovie's  portrait  had  vanished  at 
the  first  lines  of  this  sad  confession.  He  un- 
derstood that  the  cherished  image,  recom- 
menced a  thousand  times,  had  been  drawn  far 
from  the  model  with  the  tender  and  indefatiga- 
ble patience  of  an  unhappy  love,  and  that  it 
was  the  madonna  of  a  mystical  shrine,  before 
which  kneeled  a  hopeless  adoration. 

"  But  perhaps  this  Octave  has  made  a  com- 
pact with  the  devil  to  divest  me  of  my  body, 
and  then  in  my  form  to  profit  by  Prascovie's 
unsuspecting  love !  " 

Though  it  troubled  him  strangely,  the  im- 
probability of  such  a  supposition  in  these  mod- 
ern days  made  the  count  soon  discard  it. 

Smiling  to  himself  at  his  credulity,  he  ate 
the  now  cold  breakfast  which  Jean  had  brought, 
then  dressed,  and  ordered  the  carriage.  When 
it  was  ready,  he  had  himself  driven  to  Dr. 
Balthazar  Cherbonneau's,  and  crossed  the 
rooms  which  he  had  entered  the  day  before  as 


AVATAR.  123 

the  Count  Olaf  Labinski,  and  from  which  he 
had  come  out  saluted  by  all  the  world  with  the 
name  of  Octave  de  Saville.  The  physician 
was  seated,  as  usual,  on  the  divan  in  the  far- 
thest room,  holding  his  foot  in  his  hand,  and 
seemingly  plunged  in  a  profound  meditation. 

At  the  sound  of  the  count's  steps  he  raised 
his  head. 

"  Ah !  it  is  you,  my  dear  Octave.  I  was 
about  to  go  to  you,  but  it  is  a  good  sign  when 
the  invalid  comes  to  the  physician." 

"  Always  Octave !  I  think  I  shall  go  mad 
with  rage,"  thought  the  count.  Then  crossing 
his  arms,  he  stood  in  front  of  the  physician, 
and  fastening  on  him  a  terrible  look,  said,  — 

"You  know  perfectly,  M.  Balthazar  Cher- 
bonneau,  that  I  am  not  Octave,  but  Count  Olaf 
Labinski,  and  you  know  it,  because  last  even- 
ing, on  this  very  spot  you  stole  my  skin  by 
means  of  your  foreign  witchcraft." 

At  these  words  the  doctor  gave  a  shout  of 
laughter,  fell  back  on  his  cushions,  and  held  his 
sides  to  restrain  the  convulsions  of  his  gayety. 

"  Moderate  this  excessive  mirth  of  which 
you  may  repent,  doctor.  I  speak  seriously." 

"  So  much  the  worse !  that  proves  that  the 
anaesthesia  and  the  hypochondria  for  which  I 
have  been  treating  you  are  turning  into  insan- 
ity. I  must  change  the  regimen,  that  is  all." 

"  I  do  not  know  what  keeps  me  from  stran- 


124  TALES  BEFORE  SUPPER. 

gling  you  with  my  hands,  you  doctor  of  the 
devil,"  cried  the  count,  advancing  towards 
Cherbonneau. 

The  physician  smiled  at  the  count's  menace, 
and  touched  him  with  the  end  of  a  little  steel 
rod.  Olaf-de  Saville  received  a  frightful  shock, 
and  thought  his  arm  was  broken. 

"  Oh !  we  have  means  to  compel  invalids 
when  they  resist,"  said  Cherbonneau,  turning  on 
him  the  look,  cold  as  a  douche,  which  conquers 
madmen  and  subdues  the  lion.  "  Go  home, 
take  a  bath,  and  this  excitement  will  pass 
away." 

Confused  by  the  electric  shock,  Olaf-de  Sa- 
ville left  Dr.  Cherbonneau's,  more  upset  and 
uncertain  than  ever.  He  had  himself  driven 
to  Passy  to  consult  Dr.  B. 

To  this  celebrated  physician  he  said,  "  I  am 
the  prey  of  a  strange  hallucination;  when  I 
look  in  the  glass  my  face  does  not  appear  to 
me  with  its  usual  features ;  the  objects  which 
surround  me  are  changed  ;  I  do  not  recognize 
either  the  walls  or  the  furniture  of  my  room ; 
it  seems  to  me  that  I  am  not  myself  but  some 
one  else." 

"  Under  what  aspect  do  you  see  yourself  ?  " 
asked  the  physician ;  "  the  delusion  may  come 
from  the  eyes  or  from  the  brain." 

"I  see  myself  with  black  hair,  dark  blue 
eyes,  and  a  pale  face  framed  by  a  beard." 


AVATAR.  125 

"  A  passport  description  could  not  be  more 
exact :  you  have  neither  mental  hallucination 
nor  perverted  sight.  You  are,  in  fact,  just  as 
you  describe." 

"  Oh,  no  !  I  have  really  fair  hair,  black 
eyes,  tanned  skin,  and  a  slight  mustache  d 
la  hongroise" 

"  Here,"  replied  the  physician,  "  begins  an 
alteration  of  the  mental  faculties." 

"  Nevertheless,  doctor,  I  am  not  in  the  least 
insane." 

"  Quite  true.  It  is  only  sane  people  who 
come  to  me  of  themselves.  A  little  fatigue, 
some  excess  in  study  or  pleasure,  has  caused 
this  trouble.  You  are  mistaken  ;  the  vision  is 
real,  the  idea  chimerical :  instead  of  being 
fair  and  seeing  yourself  dark,  you  are  dark 
and  think  yourself  fair." 

"  Still,  I  am  sure  of  being  Count  Olaf  La- 
binski,  but  since  yesterday  every  one  calls  me 
Octave  de  Saville." 

"  That  is  precisely  what  I  said,"  answered 
the  doctor.  "  You  are  M.  de  Saville,  and  you 
imagine  yourself  to  be  Count  Labinski,  whom 
I  remember  to  have  seen,  and  who,  as  you 
say,  is  fair.  That  explains  perfectly  why  you 
see  yourself  in  the  mirror  with  another  face ; 
this  face  which  is  yours  does  not  correspond 
with  your  idea  and  surprises  you.  Remember 
this,  that  every  one  calls  you  M.  de  Saville,  and 


126  TALES  BEFORE  SUPPER. 

consequently  does  not  share  your  belief. 
Come  and  spend  a  fortnight  here ;  the  baths, 
the  rest,  the  walks  under  the  large  trees,  will 
dissipate  this  annoying  impression." 

The  count  bowed  and  promised  to  come 
again.  He  no  longer  knew  what  to  think. 
He  returned  to  the  apartment  in  the  Rue  Saint 
Lazare,  and  by  chance  saw  on  the  table  the  in- 
vitation of  the  Countess  Labinska,  which  Oc- 
tave had  shown  to  M.  Cherbonneau. 

"With  this  talisman,"  he  cried  to  himself, 
"  I  can  see  her  to-morrow." 


IX. 

WHEN  the  real  Count  Labinski,  chased  from 
his  terrestrial  paradise  by  the  false  guardian 
angel  who  stood  on  the  threshold,  had  been 
taken  to  his  carriage  by  the  servants,  the  trans- 
formed Octave  went  back  to  the  little  cream- 
and-gold  salon  to  wait  the  countess'  leisure. 

Leaning  against  a  white  marble  mantel  of 
which  the  hearth  was  filled  with  flowers,  he  saw 
himself  reflected  in  the  depths  of  the  glass 
placed  on  a  gilt  -  legged  console  opposite. 
Though  he  was  in  the  secret  of  his  meta- 
morphosis, or,  to  speak  more  exactly,  of  his 
transposition,  he  had  some  difficulty  in  per- 
suading himself  that  this  image,  so  different 


AVATAR.  127 

from  his  own,  was  the  reflection  of  his  present 
form,  and  .he  could  not  turn  his  eyes  from  the 
phantom  stranger  who  yet  had  become  him- 
self. He  gazed  at  himself  and  saw  some  one 
else.  Involuntarily  he  looked  to  see  if  the 
Count  Olaf  were  not  leaning  on  the  mantel 
beside  him  and  thus  throwing  his  reflection 
in  the  mirror.  But  he  was  quite  alone.  Dr. 
Cherbonneau  had  done  the  thing  thoroughly. 

After  a  few  minutes,  Octave-Labinski  ceased 
to  consider  the  marvelous  avatar  which  had 
placed  his  soul  in  the  body  of  Prascovie's  hus- 
band ;  his  thoughts  took  a  turn  more  conform- 
able to  his  situation.  This  incredible  event,  of 
which  the  wildest  visionary  would  not  in  his 
delirium  have  dared  to  dream,  had  been  brought 
about.  He  was  to  find  himself  in  the  pres- 
ence of  the  beautiful  and  adored  being,  and 
she  would  not  repulse  him  !  The  only  com- 
bination which  could  unite  his  happiness  with 
the  immaculate  virtue  of  the  countess  was 
achieved ! 

At  the  approach  of  this  supreme  moment 
his  soul  underwent  the  most  dreadful  agony 
and  anxiety ;  the  timidity  of  true  love  made 
it  as  weak  as  were  it  still  in  the  despised  body 
of  Octave  de  Saville. 

The  entrance  of  the  maid  put  an  end  to  his 
combat  with  this  tumult  of  thoughts.  At  sight 
of  her  he  could  not  control  a  nervous  start} 


128  TALES  BEFORE  SUPPER. 

and  the  blood  surged  to  his  heart  when  she 
said,  — 

"  Her  ladyship  can  receive  you  now,  sir." 
Octave-Labinski  followed  the  woman,  for  he 
was  unfamiliar  with  the  different  parts  of  the 
house  and  did  not  wish  to  betray  his  ignorance 
by  taking  uncertain  steps.  The  maid  showed 
him  into  a  good-sized  room ;  it  was  a  dressing- 
room  ornamented  with  all  the  most  delicate 
refinements  of  luxury.  A  set  of  wardrobes  in 
precious  wood  carved  by  Knecht  and  Lienhart, 
formed  a  sort  of  architectural  wainscoting,  a 
portico  of  capricious  style,  rare  elegance,  and 
finished  execution.  The  doors  were  separated 
by  columns  around  which  heart-shaped  leaves 
of  convolvuli  and  bell-like  flowers,  cut  with 
infinite  skill,  twined  in  ascending  spirals.  In 
these  wardrobes  were  kept  gowns  of  velvet 
and  of  silk,  cashmeres,  wraps,  laces,  cloaks 
of  sable  and  blue  fox,  hats  of  a  thousand 
shapes,  and  all  the  belongings  of  a  pretty 
woman. 

Opposite,  the  same  idea  was  repeated  with 
this  difference,  that  the  smooth  panels  were 
replaced  by  mirrors  revolving  on  hinges  like 
the  leaves  of  a  screen,  so  that  it  was  possible 
to  see  the  face,  profile,  or  back,  and  to  judge 
of  the  effect  of  a  bodice  or  a  head-dress.  On 
the  third  side  was  a  long  toilet-table  with  an 
alabaster-onyx  top,  where  the  silver  faucets 


AVATAR.  129 

spouted  hot  and  cold  water  into  huge  Jap- 
anese bowls  set  in  an  open-work  rim  of  the 
same  metal ;  Bohemian  glass  bottles  sparkling 
in  the  candlelight  like  diamonds  and  rubies, 
contained  essences  and  perfumes. 

The  walls  and  ceiling  were  tufted  with  Nile 
green  satin,  like  the  inside  of  a  jewel-case.  A 
thick  Smyrna  rug,  with  softly  blending  colors, 
wadded  the  floor. 

On  a  green  velvet  pedestal  in  the  centre  of 
the  room  was  set  a  large  chest  of  fantastic 
shape  in  Khorassan  steel,  chased,  embossed, 
and  engraved  with  arabesques  amplificated 
enough  to  make  the  ornamentation  of  the  Am- 
bassadors' Hall  in  the  Alhambra  appear  sim- 
plicity itself.  Oriental  art  seemed  to  have 
done  its  best  in  this  marvelous  work,  in  which 
the  fairy  fingers  of  the  Peris  must  surely  have 
taken  part.  It  was  in  this  chest  that  the 
Countess  Prascovie  Labinska  inclosed  her  or- 
naments, jewels  fit  for  a  queen,  which  she 
wore  rarely,  thinking,  with  reason,  that  they 
were  not  worth  the  place  they  covered.  Her 
woman's  instinct  told  her  that  she  was  too 
beautiful  to  need  magnificence  !  In  conse- 
quence, they  only  saw  the  light  on  solemn  oc- 
casions when  the  hereditary  pomp  of  the  an- 
cient Labinski  family  had  to  appear  in  all  its 
splendor.  Diamonds  never  lay  more  idle. 

Near  the   window,   whose    ample    curtains 


I3O  TALES  BEFORE  SUPPER. 

hung  in  heavy  folds,  the  Countess  Prascovie 
Labinska,  radiantly  fair  and  beautiful,  was 
seated  at  a  lace-covered  dressing-table,  before 
a  mirror  held  toward  her  by  two  angels  carved 
by  Mile,  de  Fauveau  with  the  fragile  elegance 
which  characterizes  that  lady's  talent ;  two 
candelabra,  each  with  six  candles,  flooded 
her  with  light.  An  ideally  fine  Algerian  bur- 
nous, with  blue  and  white  stripes  in  alternation 
opaque  and  transparent,  enveloped  her  like  a 
fleecy  cloud ;  the  thin  material  had  slipped 
from  the  satiny  tissue  of  the  shoulders,  and  re- 
vealed the  lines  of  a  throat  beside  which  the 
snow-white  neck  of  a  swan  would  have  ap- 
peared gray  indeed.  The  opening  of  the  folds 
was  filled  by  the  laces  of  a  batiste  gown,  a 
nocturnal  attire  without  a  restraining  belt.  The 
countess'  hair  was  undone,  and  fell  behind 
her  in  a  mass  as  opulent  as  the  mantle  of  an 
empress.  The  flowing  golden  locks,  from  which 
Venus  Aphrodite  kneeling  in  her  mother-of- 
pearl  shell  wrung  the  drops  when  she  rose  like 
a  flower  from  the  blue  Ionian  Sea,  were  not 
more  blonde  or  luxurious  !  Blend  Titian's  am- 
ber and  Paul  Veronese's  silver  with  the  golden 
varnish  of  Rembrandt,  make  the  sun  shine 
through  a  topaz,  and  yet  you  will  not  obtain 
the  marvelous  tint  of  her  wonderful  hair,  which 
seemed  to  give  out  light  instead  of  receiving  it, 
and  which  would  have  merited  more  than  did 


AVATAR.  131 

Berenice's  to  shine,  a  new  constellation,  among 
the  ancient  planets  !  Two  women  were  divid- 
ing, smoothing,  and  rolling  it  in  coils  carefully 
arranged  that  the  contact  with  the  pillow 
should  not  rumple  it. 

During  this  delicate  operation  the  countess 
balanced  on  the  end  of  her  foot  a  Turkish 
slipper  of  white  velvet  embroidered  with  gold, 
small  enough  to  create  jealousy  in  the  hearts 
of  the  Sultan's  khanouns  and  odalisques. 
Now  and  then,  throwing  back  the  silky  folds 
of  the  burnous,  she  uncovered  her  white  arm, 
and  with  a  gently  impatient  motion  pushed 
aside  some  stray  lock  of  hair. 

Reclining  in  this  indolent  posture  she  re- 
called the  graceful  figures  in  the  Greek  toilet 
scenes  which  decorate  antique  vases,  and  of 
which  no  artist  has  since  been  able  to  reproduce 
the  pure  and  correct  outlines  or  the  youthful 
and  slender  beauty.  She  was  a  thousand  times 
more  seductive  than  in  the  garden  of  the  Villa 
Salviati  at  Florence,  and  had  Octave  not  been 
already  wildly  in  love  with  her  he  would  then 
have  infallibly  become  so ;  but  happily,  noth- 
ing can  be  added  to  the  infinite. 

At  sight  of  her  Octave-Labinski  acted  as  if 
he  had  seen  the  most  terrible  spectacle;  his 
knees  knocked  together  and  almost  gave  way 
under  him.  His  mouth  grew  parched.  Dis- 
tress seized  him  at  the  throat  like  the  hand  of 


132  TALES  BEFORE  SUPPER. 

a  Thug,  and  flames  danced  before  his  eyes. 
Her  loveliness  magnetized  him. 

Reflecting,  however,  that  this  stupid  and  be- 
wildered manner  fit  for  a  repulsed  lover  was 
perfectly  ridiculous  in  a  husband,  no  matter 
how  much  in  love  he  might  still  be  with  his 
wife,  he  made  a  courageous  effort,  and  stepped 
firmly  enough  toward  the  countess. 

"  Ah  !  it  is  you,  Olaf  !  How  late  you  are  this 
evening ! "  said  the  countess  without  turning, 
for  her  head  was  held  by  the  long  braids  which 
the  maids  were  twisting.  Freeing  it  from  the 
folds  of  the  burnous,  she  offered  him  one  of 
her  beautiful  hands.  Octave-Labinski  grasped 
her  soft,  flower-like  hand,  carried  it  to  his  lips, 
and  pressed  it  with  a  long,  burning  kiss,  —  his 
whole  soul  concentrating  itself  on  the  little 
spot. 

It  is  impossible  to  know  what  sensitiveness 
of  the  epidermis,  what  instinct  of  divine  mod- 
esty, what  unconscious  intuition  of  the  heart 
warned  the  countess ;  but  a  crimson  flush 
spread  swiftly  over  her  face.  Her  throat  and 
her  arms  took  on  the  hue  of  the  snow  on  the 
mountain-tops  at  the  sun's  earliest  kiss.  She 
started,  and,  half  angry,  half  ashamed,  slowly 
withdrew  her  hand.  Octave's  lips  had  given 
her  the  impression  of  a  hot  iron.  She  quickly 
recovered  herself,  however,  and  smiled  at  her 
childishness. 


AVATAR.  133 

"  You  do  not  answer  me,  dear  Olaf .  Do  you 
know  that  it  is  over  six  hours  since  I  saw  you  ? 
You  neglect  me,"  she  added,  in  a  reproachful 
tone  ;  "  formerly  you  would  not  have  deserted 
me  so  for  a  whole  long  evening.  Did  you  even 
think  of  me  ?  " 

"  All  the  time,"  replied  Octave-Labinski. 

"  Oh,  no,  not  all  the  time.  I  know  when 
you  think  of  me  even  at  a  distance.  This 
evening,  for  instance,  I  was  alone,  seated  at 
the  piano,  playing  a  piece  of  Weber's  to  soothe 
my  dullness  with  music ;  in  the  sonorous  pul- 
sations of  the  notes  your  spirit  hovered  about 
me  for  several  minutes ;  but  at  the  last  chord 
it  flew  away  I  know  not  whither,  and  did  not 
return.  Do  not  contradict  me,  I  am  sure  of 
what  I  say." 

Prascovie  in  fact  was  not  mistaken.  It  was 
the  moment  when  Count  Olaf  Labinski,  at  Dr. 
Cherbonneau's,  had  leaned  over  the  magical 
glass  of  water  evoking  with  all  the  force  of  a 
fixed  idea  an  adored  image.  From  that  in- 
stant, submerged  in  the  fathomless  ocean  of 
a  magnetic  slumber,  the  count  had  been  with- 
out thought,  feeling,  or  volition. 

Having  finished  the  countess'  toilet,  the 
maids  withdrew.  Octave-Labinski  remained 
standing,  gazing  at  Prascovie  with  a  look  of 
passion. 

Constrained  and  oppressed  by  his  expression, 


134  TALES  BEFORE  SUPPER. 

the  countess  wrapped  herself  in  her  burnous 
like  Polymnia  in  her  draperies.  Only  her  head 
appeared  above  the  blue-and-white  folds,  un- 
easy but  charming. 

No  human  penetration  could  divine  the 
mysterious  displacement  of  souls  performed  by 
Dr.  Cherbonneau  by  means  of  the  Sannyasi 
Brahma-Logum  formula;  still  Prascovie  did 
not  recognize  in  the  eyes  of  Octave-Labinski 
her  husband's  usual  expression,  that  look  of 
love,  chaste,  calm,  equal,  eternal  as  the  love  of 
angels.  This  look  was  kindled  by  an  earthly 
passion  which  troubled  her  and  made  her 
blush.  She  did  not  understand  what  it  was, 
but  she  knew  something  had  happened.  A 
thousand  wild  suppositions  crossed  her  mind. 
IVas  she  no  longer  for  Olaf  anything  but  a 
common  woman,  desired  for  her  beauty  like 
a  courtesan  ?  Had  the  sublime  accord  of  their 
souls  been  broken  by  some  dissonance  of 
which  she  was  ignorant  ?  Did  Olaf  love  an- 
other, or  had  the  corruptions  of  Paris  sullied 
the  purity  of  his  heart?  She  asked  herself 
these  questions  rapidly  without  being  able  to 
answer  them  in  a  satisfactory  manner,  and  she 
told  herself  she  was  foolish,  but  still  she  felt 
afraid.  A  secret  terror  invaded  her  as  though 
she  were  in  the  presence  of  some  danger,  un- 
known, but  divined  by  that  second  sight  of  the 
mind  which  it  is  always  wrong  to  disobey. 


AVATAR.  135 

Nervous  and  agitated,  she  arose  and  went 
toward  the  door  of  the  bedroom.  The  pseudo- 
count  accompanied  her  as  Othello  leads  away 
Desdemona  at  each  exit  in  Shakespeare's 
play,  with  one  arm  around  her  waist ;  but  when 
she  was  on  the  threshold  she  turned  white  and 
cold  as  a  statue,  stopped  a  second,  gave  a 
timorous  glance  at  the  young  man,  then  en- 
tered, closed  the  door  quickly,  and  shot  the  bolt. 

"  Octave's  look  !  "  she  cried,  and  sank  faint- 
ing on  a  sofa.  As  her  senses  came  back  she 
said  to  herself :  "  But  how  is  it  that  this  look 
which  I  have  never  forgotten  shines  to-night 
in  Olaf's  eyes  ?  Why  have  I  seen  its  gloomy 
and  despairing  flame  sparkle  in  the  pupils  of 
my  husband  ?  Is  Octave  dead  ?  Is  it  his  soul 
which  gleamed  before  me  an  instant  to  bid  me 
farewell  on  leaving  this  world  ?  Olaf !  Olaf  ! 
If  I  was  mistaken,  if  I  foolishly  yielded  to 
empty  fears,  you  will  forgive  me ;  but  if  I  had 
welcomed  you  to-night  I  should  have  thought  I 
was  giving  myself  to  another." 

The  countess  assured  herself  that  the  door 
was  well  bolted,  lighted  a  pendent  lamp,  and 
with  a  sensation  of  indefinable  anguish  like  a 
timid  child  she  hid  herself  in  the  bed.  To- 
wards morning  she  fell  asleep;  but  strange 
and  incoherent  dreams  tormented  her  restless 
slumber.  Ardent  eyes  —  Octave's  eyes  — 
stared  at  her  from  a  mist,  and  darted  at  her 


136  TALES  BEFORE  SUPPER. 

forks  of  fire ;  while  at  the  foot  of  her  bed 
crouched  a  black  and  wrinkled  figure,  mutter- 
ing syllables  in  an  unknown  tongue.  Count 
Olaf  also  appeared  in  this  absurd  dream,  but 
clothed  in  a  form  which  was  not  his  own. 

We  will  not  attempt  to  portray  Octave's  dis- 
appointment when  he  found  himself  facing  a 
closed  door  and  heard  the  bolt  grating  inside. 
His  supreme  hope  had  failed.  He  had  had 
recourse  to  strange  and  terrible  methods  ;  he 
had  surrendered  himself  to  a  magician,  perhaps 
a  demon,  risking  his  life  in  this  world,  and  his 
soul  in  the  next,  to  conquer  a  woman  who  es- 
caped him,  though  rendered  defenseless  by  the 
sorcery  of  India.  Repulsed  as  a  lover,  he  was 
not  more  fortunate  as  a  husband ;  Prascovie's 
invincible  purity  thwarted  the  most  infernal 
plots.  On  the  door-sill  of  the  bedchamber 
she  had  seemed  to  him  like  one  of  Sweden- 
borg's  white  angels  anathematizing  the  Evil 
Spirit. 

He  could  not  stay  all  night  in  this  ridiculous 
position,  so  he  looked  for  the  count's  apart- 
ment. At  the  end  of  a  suite  of  rooms  he  found 
one  which  contained  an  ebony  columned  bed 
with  tapestry  curtains,  where  amid  the  scrolls 
and  flowers  was  embroidered  a  coat-of-arms. 
The  panoplies  of  Oriental  armor,  knights' 
cuirasses  and  helmets,  touched  by  the  reflec- 
tion of  a  lamp,  threw  vague  glimmers  into  the 


AVATAR.  137 

shadow.  Bohemian  leather  stamped  with  gold 
gleamed  on  the  walls.  Three  or  four  huge 
carved  arm-chairs  and  a  heavy  cabinet  loaded 
with  ornaments  completed  this  mediaeval  fur- 
niture, which  would  not  have  been  out  of  place 
in  the  great  hall  of  a  Gothic  manor.  On  the 
count's  part  this  was  not  a  frivolous  imitation 
of  the  fashion,  but  a  hallowed  memory.  The 
room  exactly  reproduced  the  one  he  had  in- 
habited at  his  mother's,  and  though  often 
laughed  at  about  it,  —  this  fifth-act  scenery,  — 
he  had  always  refused  to  change  its  style. 

Octave-Labinski,  exhausted  with  fatigue  and 
emotion,  flung  himself  on  the  bed  and  fell 
asleep,  cursing  Dr.  Balthazar  Cherbonneau. 

Fortunately,  the  morning  brought  with  it 
serener  thoughts ;  he  promised  himself  to  act 
hereafter  in  a  more  moderate  fashion,  to  dull 
his  glances,  and  to  assume  the  manners  of  a 
husband.  Aided  by  the  count's  valet,  he 
dressed  himself  in  a  plain  and  simple  costume, 
and  went  quietly  down  to  the  dining-room  to 
breakfast  with  the  countess. 


X. 

OCTAVE-LABINSKI  walked  in  the  footsteps  of 
the  valet,  for  in  this  house  of  which  he  was  the 
apparent  master  he  did  not  know  where  the 


138  TALES  BEFORE  SUPPER, 

dining-room  was.  It  was  a  vast  room  on  the 
ground  floor,  opening  on  the  court,  and  in  its 
noble  and  severe  style  recalled  both  an  abbey 
and  a  manor.  Dark  oak  wainscoting,  arranged 
in  symmetrical  designs,  reached  to  the  ceiling, 
where  plaster  moulded  in  relief  formed  hex- 
agonal panels  painted  blue  and  delicately  ara- 
besqued  in  gold.  On  the  long  panels  of  the 
wood-work  Philippe  Rousseau  had  painted  the 
four  seasons  symbolically,  not  in  mythologi- 
cal figures,  but  by  trophies  of  still-life  com- 
posed of  the  fruits  appropriate  to  each  season 
of  the  year.  Game  by  Jadin  corresponded  to 
the  fruits  of  Rousseau,  and  above  each  paint- 
ing gleamed  like  the  disk  of  a  shield  an  im- 
mense plate  by  Bernard  Palissy  or  Leonard 
de  Limoges,  of  Japanese  porcelain,  Majolica  or 
Arabian  pottery,  the  glaze  opalescent  with  all 
the  colors  of  the  prism.  Stags'  antlers  and 
aurochs'  horns  alternated  with  the  faience,  and 
at  each  end  of  the  room  rose  a  large  side- 
board, as  high  as  the  altar-pieces  in  Spanish 
churches,  of  elaborate  architecture  and  carved 
decoration,  and  rivaling  the  most  beautiful 
works  of  Berruguete,  Cornejo  Duque,  and 
Verbruggen.  On  their  shelves  glittered  in 
confusion  the  antique  silver  of  the  Labinski 
family.  Pitchers  with  fantastic  handles,  salt- 
cellars of  ancient  shape,  large  bowls,  drinking- 
cups,  centre  pieces  shaped  by  the  quaint  Ger- 


AVATAR.  139 

man  fancy,  all  worthy  of  a  place  amid  the 
treasures  of  the  Dresden  Green  Vault.  Oppo- 
site the  antique  plate  shone  the  marvelous 
products  of  modern  silverware.  The  master- 
pieces of  Wagner,  Duponchel,  Rudolphi,  and 
Froment-Meurice  ;  enameled  tea-sets  with  fig- 
ures by  Feuchere  and  Vechte  ;  chased  salvers, 
champagne  coolers  with  vine-leaved  handles, 
and  bacchanals  in  bas-relief ,  chafing-dishes  as 
graceful  as  the  Pompeian  tripods,  not  to  men- 
tion the  Bohemian  crystal,  the  Venetian  glass, 
and  the  services  in  old  Saxe  and  old  Sevres. 

Oak  chairs  covered  with  green  morocco 
were  ranged  along  the  walls,  and  over  a  table 
of  which  the  feet  were  carved  like  eagle's  claws 
there  fell  a  clear,  equal  light  through  the  ground 
white  glass  set  in  the  centre  panel  of  the  ceiling. 
A  transparent  wreath  of  vine-leaves  framed  this 
milky  square  with  green  foliage.  On  the  table, 
set  in  Russian  fashion,  the  fruit  was  already 
placed,  surrounded  by  a  garland  of  violets ; 
and  under  silver  covers  that  were  polished  like 
emirs'  helmets,  the  viands  awaited  the  knife 
and  fork.  A  Moscow  samovar  hissed  forth  a 
jet  of  steam ;  and  two  footmen  in  knee-breeches 
and  white  cravats  stood  silent  and  immovable 
behind  the  two  arm-chairs,  facing  each  other 
like  domestic  statues. 

Octave,  in  order  not  to  be  involuntarily  pre- 
occupied by  the  novelty  of  objects  with  which 


140  TALES  BEFORE  SUPPER. 

he  ought  to  have  been  familiar,  took  in  all  these 
things  at  a  glance. 

A  rustle  on  the  marble  slabs,  a  murmur  of 
silk,  made  him  turn  his  head.  It  was  the 
Countess  Prascovie  Labinska  who  approached 
and  seated  herself,  after  making  him  an  arnica^ 
ble  little  gesture.  She  wore  a  morning  gown 
of  pale  green  and  white  plaid  silk  trimmed 
with  a  pinked  ruching  of  the  same  material. 
Her  hair  lay  in  thick  waves  on  her  temples, 
and  was  gathered  at  the  nape  of  her  neck  in  a 
golden  coil  resembling  the  scroll  of  an  Ionian 
pillar,  a  style  as  simple  as  it  was  dignified,  and 
which  a  Greek  sculptor  could  not  have  wished 
to  change.  Her  rose-tinted  cheeks  were  deli- 
cately blanched  by  the  evening's  emotion  and 
the  agitated  sleep  of  the  night.  An  impercep- 
tible aureole  of  shadow  encircled  her  eyes, 
usually  so  clear  and  calm.  She  had  a  weary, 
languid  air ;  but  thus  softened,  her  beauty  was 
only  the  more  penetrating  ;  it  acquired  a 
human  touch,  the  goddess  became  a  woman, 
the  angel,  folding  her  wings,  ceased  to  soar. 

Octave,  grown  prudent,  veiled  the  flame  in 
his  eyes  with  a  look  of  indifference. 

The  countess,  with  a  slight  motion  of  the 
shoulders  as  if  chilled  by  a  remnant  of  fever, 
stretched  out  her  small  bronze-slippered  foot 
to  the  silky  wool  of  a  rug  that  had  been  placed 
under  the  table  to  neutralize  the,  cold  contact 


AVATAR.  141 

of  the  mosaic  of  white  and  Veronese  variegated 
marble  which  paved  the  dining-room.  Fixing 
her  blue  eyes  on  her  companion,  whom  she 
took  for  her  husband,  for  with  the  daylight  had 
vanished  the  presentiments,  the  fears,  and  the 
phantoms  of  the  night,  she  spoke  a  sentence  in 
Polish  in  a  tender,  melodious  voice,  rich  with 
chaste  caresses.  In  moments  of  affection  and 
intimacy  she  often  used  the  dear  maternal  lan- 
guage with  the  count,  especially  in  the  presence 
of  French  servants  to  whom  this  idiom  was  un- 
familiar. 

The  Parisian  Octave  was  well  up  in  Latin, 
Italian,  Spanish,  and  knew  a  few  words  of  Eng- 
lish ;  but,  like  all  Gallo-Romans,  he  was  en- 
tirely ignorant  of  the  Slavic  tongues.  The 
bristling  bastion  of  consonants  which  protects 
the  rare  vowels  in  Polish  would  have  inhibited 
his  access  even  had  he  wished  to  approach  it. 
In  Florence  the  countess  had  always  spoken 
to  him  in  French  or  Italian,  and  the  idea  of 
learning  the  language  in  which  Mickiewicz  has 
almost  equaled  Byron  had  not  occurred  to 
him.  It  is  impossible  to  think  of  everything. 

On  hearing  this  phrase,  there  took  place  in 
the  count's  brain,  inhabited  by  the  mind  of 
Octave,  a  very  singular  phenomenon.  The 
sounds,  so  strange  to  the  Parisian,  following 
the  folds  of  a  Slav  ear  reached  the  usual  place 
where  Olaf's  mind  received  and  transferred 


142  TALES  BEFORE  SUPPER. 

them  into  thoughts,  and  evoked  there  a  sort 
of  physical  remembrance.  Octave  had  a  con- 
fused idea  of  their  meaning  ;  words  hidden  in 
the  cerebral  circumvolutions,  in  the  secret  re- 
cesses of  memory,  arose  buzzing,  ready  to  re- 
ply ;  but  these  vague  reminiscences,  failing  to 
communicate  with  the  mind,  soon  dispersed, 
and  all  was  again  a  blank.  The  poor  lover's 
embarrassment  was  dreadful ;  in  taking  the 
form  of  Count  Olaf  Labinski,  he  had  not 
dreamed  of  this  complication,  and  he  realized 
that  in  seizing  his  position  he  had  exposed 
himself  to  severe  disasters. 

Astonished  at  Octave's  silence,  and  fancying 
that  through  some  momentary  abstraction  he 
had  not  heard  her,  Prascovie  repeated  her  re- 
mark slowly  and  in  a  louder  tone. 

If  he  heard  more  plainly  the  sound  of  the 
words,  the  pseudo-count  understood  their  sig- 
nification none  the  better.  He  made  desper- 
ate efforts  to  guess  what  it  might  be  about, 
but  for  those  who  do  not  know  them  the  dense 
languages  of  the  North  have  no  transparency, 
and  if  a  Frenchman  can  surmise  what  an  Ital- 
ian says,  he  is  deaf  when  listening  to  a  Pole. 
In  spite  of  himself,  a  violent  blush  covered  his 
cheeks,  he  bit  his  lips,  and  to  keep  himself  in 
countenance  hacked  furiously  at  the  meat  on 
his  plate. 

"One  would  certainly  suppose,   my  sweet 


AVATAR.  143 

prince,"  said  the  countess  this  time  in  French, 
"  that  you  do  not  hear,  or  that  you  do  not  un- 
derstand me." 

"Really,"  faltered  Octave-Labinski,  hardly 
knowing  what  he  said,  "  that  terrible  language 
is  so  difficult !  " 

"  Difficult !  Yes  !  perhaps  it  is  for  stran- 
gers ;  but  for  those  who  have  stammered  it  at 
their  mother's  knee  it  springs  from  the  lips 
like  the  breath  of  life,  and  with  the  uncon- 
sciousness of  thought." 

"  Yes,  doubtless  ;  but  there  are  times  when 
it  seems  to  me  as  if  I  no  longer  know  it." 

"  What  are  you  saying,  Olaf  ?  What !  you 
have  forgotten  the  language  of  your  ancestors, 
the  language  of  the  Fatherland,  the  language 
which  enables  you  to  recognize  your  brothers 
among  men,  and,"  added  she  in  a  lower 
voice,  "  the  language  in  which  you  first  told  me 
you  loved  me  !  " 

"  The  habit  of  using  another  tongue  "... 
ventured  Octave-Labinski,  at  the  end  of  his 
arguments. 

"  Olaf,"  answered  the  countess  reproachfully, 
"  I  see  that  Paris  has  spoiled  you ;  I  was  right 
in  not  wishing  to  come  here.  Who  could  have 
told  me  that  when  the  noble  Count  Labinski 
returned  to  his  domains  he  would  no  longer 
know  how  to  reply  to  the  felicitations  of  his 
vassals  ? " 


144  TALES  BEFORE  SUPPER. 

Prascovie's  charming  countenance  assumed 
a  doleful  expression  ;  for  the  first  time  sadness 
cast  its  shadow  on  her  angelically  smooth 
brow.  This  strange  forgetfulness  wounded  hei 
inmost  soul,  and  seemed  almost  treasonable. 

The  rest  of  the  breakfast  passed  in  silence. 
Prascovie  frowned  on  the  man  whom  she 
thought  the  count.  Octave  was  in  torment, 
for  he  dreaded  other  questions  which  he  would 
be  compelled  to  leave  unanswered.  At  last 
the  countess  rose  and  returned  to  her  rooms. 

Left  alone,  Octave  played  with  the  handle 
of  a  knife  which  he  was  tempted  to  thrust  in 
his  heart,  for  his  situation  was  unbearable. 
He  had  counted  on  a  surprise,  and  now  he 
found  himself  involved  in  the  to  him  issue- 
less  labyrinths  of  an  unknown  existence.  In 
assuming  the  body  of  Count  Olaf  Labinski  he 
should  also  have  taken  from  him  his  previous 
ideas,  the  languages  he  knew,  his  childhood's 
memories,  the  thousand  intimate  details 
which  compose  a  man's  self,  the  links  binding 
his  existence  to  the  existences  of  others.  But 
for  that,  all  Dr.  Balthazar  Cherbonneau's 
knowledge  would  not  have  sufficed.  What 
a  fate  !  actually  to  be  in  this  paradise  whose 
threshold  he  had  hardly  dared  glance  at  from 
afar%  to  live  under  the  same  roof  with  Pras- 
covie, see  her,  speak  to  her,  kiss  her  hand 
with  the  very  lips  of  her  husband,  and  yet  be 


AVATAR.  145 

unable  to  deceive  her  divine  modesty,  and  to  be- 
tray himself  every  instant  by  some  inexplicable 
stupidity  !  "  It  was  written  above  that  Pras- 
covie  would  never  love  me !  And  yet  I  have 
made  the  greatest  sacrifice  to  which  mortal 
pride  can  descend  ;  I  have  renounced  my  self, 
I  have  consented  to  profit  under  a  strange  form 
by  caresses  destined  for  another !  " 

At  this  point  in  his  monologue  a  groom 
bowed  before  him  and  asked,  with  every  sign 
of  the  deepest  respect,  what  horse  he  would 
ride.  Seeing  that  the  count  did  not  answer, 
the  man,  much  frightened  at  his  own  bold- 
ness, risked  murmuring,  — 

"  Vultur  or  Rustem  ?  they  have  not  been 
out  for  a  week." 

"  Rustem,"  replied  Octave-Labinski,  as  he 
would  have  said  Vultur  had  not  the  last  name 
clung  to  his  distraught  mind. 

He  dressed  for  riding  and  started  for  the 
Bois  de  Boulogne,  wishing  to  give  his  shaken 
nerves  a  bath  of  fresh  air. 

Rustem,  a  magnificent  animal  of  the  Nedji 
race,  that  carried  on  his  breast,  in  an  Oriental 
bag  of  gold-embroidered  velvet,  titles  to  a  no- 
bility extending  back  to  the  first  years  of  the 
hegira,  did  not  need  to  be  roused.  He  seemed 
to  understand  his  rider's  thoughts,  and  as  soon 
as  he  had  left  the  pavements  and  struck  the 
bridle-paths  he  started  off,  fleet  as  an  arrow, 


146  TALES  BEFORE  SUPPER. 

before  Octave  had  touched  him  with  the  spur. 
After  two  hours  of  hard  riding  the  horseman 
and  his  beast  returned  to  the  hotel,  the  one 
quite  calm,  and  the  other  fuming,  with  scarlet 
nostrils. 

The  pseudo-count  joined  the  countess,  whom 
he  found  in  her  drawing-room,  dressed  in  a 
gown  of  white  silk  flounced  to  the  waist,  a  knot 
of  ribbon  in  her  hair. 

It  was  Thursday,  the  day  on  which  she  re- 
mained at  home  and  received  her  visitors. 

"  Well,"  she  said  to  him,  with  a  gracious 
smile,  for  her  beautiful  lips  could  not  pout  for 
long,  "  have  you  regained  your  memory  gallop- 
ing in  the  alleys  of  the  Bois  ?  " 

"  No,  my  dear,"  replied  Octave-Labinski, 
"but  I  have  a  confession  to  make." 

"  Do  I  not  know  in  advance  all  your 
thoughts?  Are  we  no  longer  transparent  to 
each  other  ?  " 

"  Yesterday  I  went  to  see  the  physician  who 
is  so  much  talked  about." 

"Yes,  Dr.  Balthazar  Cherbonneau,  who 
made  a  long  stay  in  India,  and  has,  they  say, 
learned  from  the  Brahmans  a  lot  of  secrets, 
each  more  marvelous  than  the  other.  You 
even  wished  to  take  me,  but  I  am  not  curious  ; 
for  I  know  you  love  me,  and  that  knowledge 
is  all  I  require." 

"  He  made  such  singular  experiments  before 


AVATAR.  147 

me,  he  produced  such  miraculous  effects,  that 
my  mind  is  still  disturbed  by  them.  This  ec- 
centric fellow,  who  has  an  irresistible  power  at 
his  disposal,  threw  me  into  a  magnetic  sleep 
so  profound  that  on  awakening  I  no  longer 
had  the  same  faculties.  I  had  lost  the  remem- 
brance of  many  things.  The  past  floated  in 
a  mist  of  obscurity ;  my  love  for  you  alone 
remained  intact." 

"  You  were  wrong,  Olaf,  to  put  yourself  un- 
der the  influence  of  this  physician.  God,  who 
has  created  the  soul,  has  the  right  to  touch  it," 
said  the  countess  in  a  grave  tone;  "but  man 
in  attempting  to  do  so  commits  an  impious 
action.  I  hope  that  you  will  not  go  back  there, 
and  I  hope,  too,  that  when  I  say  something 
agreeable  to  you  —  in  Polish  —  you  will  under- 
stand me  as  you  once  did." 

During  his  ride  Octave  had  conceived  this 
excuse  of  magnetism  to  palliate  the  errors  which 
he  could  not  fail  to  make  in  his  new  life.  But 
his  troubles  were  not  ended.  A  servant  open- 
ing the  door  announced  a  visitor. 

"  M.  Octave  de  Saville." 

Though  he  might  have  expected  this  meeting 
one  day  or  another,  at  these  simple  words  the 
real  Octave  trembled  as  if  the  trumpet  of  the 
last  judgment  had  suddenly  sounded  in  his  ear. 
He  had  need  to  call  up  all  his  courage,  and 
to  tell  himself  that  he  had  the  best  of  the  sit- 


148  TALES  BEFORE  SUPPER. 

uation,  to  prevent  himself  from  reeling.  In- 
stinctively he  clutched  the  back  of  a  chair,  and 
thus  managed  to  stand  apparently  firm  and 
tranquil. 

Count  Olaf,  clothed  in  the  form  of  Octave,  ad- 
vanced towards  the  countess  with  a  deep  bow. 

"The  Count  Labinski  .  .  .  M.  Octave  de 
Saville,"  said  the  countess,  presenting  the 
gentlemen. 

The  two  men  bowed  coldly,  and  over  the 
marble  mask  of  worldly  politeness  which  some- 
times covers  such  evil  passions  shot  savage 
glances  at  each  other. 

"  You  have  grown  formal  since  Florence 
days,  Monsieur  Octave,"  said  the  countess  in  a 
familiar  and  friendly  tone,  "  and  I  was  afraid 
I  should  leave  Paris  without  seeing  you.  You 
were  more  assiduous  at  the  Villa  Salviati,  and 
you  were  numbered  among  the  faithful." 

"  Madam,"  the  pseudo  -  Octave  answered 
constrainedly,  "  I  have  traveled,  I  have  been 
ailing,  ill  even,  and  on  receiving  your  gracious 
invitation  I  asked  myself  whether  I  should 
profit  by  it,  for  one  must  not  be  an  egotist  and 
abuse  the  indulgence  that  people  are  good 
enough  to  have  for  a  bore." 

"  Bored  perhaps,  but  never  a  bore,"  replied 
the  countess.  "  You  have  always  been  melan- 
choly ;  yet  does  not  one  of  your  poets  say  of 
melancholy, 

'After  idleness,  't  is  the  best  of  ills  V" 


AVATAR.  149 

"  It  is  a  report  which  happy  people  spread  to 
dispense  themselves  from  pitying  those  who 
suffer,"  said  Olaf-de  Saville. 

As  if  to  beg  his  pardon  for  the  love  with 
which  she  had  involuntarily  inspired  him,  the 
countess  cast  a  look  of  ineffable  sweetness  on 
the  count,  shut  up  in  Octave's  body. 

"  You  think  me  more  frivolous  than  I  am  ; 
all  real  pain  has  my  pity,  and  if  I  cannot  re- 
lieve, I  can  at  least  commiserate.  I  would 
like  to  have  had  you  happy,  dear  Monsieur 
Octave ;  but  why  have  you  immured  yourself 
in  sadness,  why  have  you  refused  the  life  which 
came  to  you  with  its  joys,  its  seductions,  and 
its  duties  ?  Why  have  you  refused  my  prof- 
fered friendship  ?  " 

These  simple  and  sincere  phrases  impressed 
the  two  listeners  differently.  Octave  heard  in 
them  the  confirmation  of  the  judgment  pro- 
nounced in  the  Salviati  garden  by  this  perfect 
mouth  unsoiled  by  lies  ;  and  Olaf,  a  proof  of 
his  wife's  unalterable  virtue,  which  nothing 
but  diabolical  cunning  could  overcome.  And 
a  sudden  madness  seized  him  on  seeing  his 
spectre  animated  by  another  soul  installed  in 
his  own  house.  He  sprang  at  the  throat  of 
the  false  count. 

"Thief,  brigand,  rogue,  give  me  back  my 
body ! " 

At  this  most  extraordinary  action  the  coun- 


I5O  TALES  BEFORE  SUPPER. 

tess  rushed  to  the  bell  and  the  footmen  car- 
ried out  the  count. 

"  That  poor  Octave  has  gone  crazy  !  "  said 
Prascovie  while  Olaf,  struggling  vainly,  was 
being  taken  away. 

"Yes,"  answered  the  real  Octave,  "crazy 
with  love !  Countess,  you  are  decidedly  too 
beautiful !  " 


XI. 

Two  hours  after  this  scene  the  false  count 
received  from  the  real  one  a  letter  bearing 
the  seal  of  Octave  de  Saville,  —  the  unhappy 
dispossessed  Olaf  had  no  other  at  his  disposal. 
It  produced  an  odd  effect  on  the  usurper 
of  Count  Labinski's  body  to  open  a  missive 
sealed  with  his  own  crest,  but  everything  had 
to  be  peculiar  in  this  abnormal  position. 

The  letter  contained  the  following  lines, 
traced  by  a  stiff  hand,  in  a  writing  which 
looked  like  counterfeit,  for  Olaf  was  not  ac- 
customed to  holding  a  pen  with  Octave's 
fingers :  — 

"  Read  by  another  than  yourself,  this  letter 
would  appear  to  be  dated  from  a  lunatic 
asylum,  but  you  will  understand  it.  An  inex- 
plicable combination  of  circumstances  never 
before  produced,  perhaps,  since  the  earth  has 


AVATAR.  151 

turned  about  the  sun  forces  me  to  act  as  no 
man  has  ever  done.  I  write  to  myself  and  put 
on  the  address  a  name  which  is  my  own,  a 
name  which  with  my  person  you  have  stolen 
from  me.  I  am  ignorant  of  the  plot  of  which 
I  am  the  victim  and  of  the  circle  of  infernal 
illusions  into  which  I  have  put  my  foot.  You, 
of  course,  know  all  about  it. 

"  If  you  are  not  a  coward,  the  mouth  of  my 
pistol  or  the  point  of  my  sword  will  demand  of 
you  this  secret  on  a  ground  where  every  man, 
honorable  or  infamous,  answers  the  questions 
put  to  him.  To-morrow  one  of  us  must  have 
ceased  to  see  the  light  of  day.  The  universe 
is  now  too  narrow  for  us  both.  I  will  kill  my 
body  filled  with  your  lying  spirit,  or  you  will 
kill  yours,  wherein  my  soul  rages  at  being  im- 
prisoned. 

"  Do  not  try  to  prove  me  crazy.  I  shall  have 
the  strength  to  be  reasonable,  and  everywhere 
I  meet  you  I  will  insult  you  with  the  polite- 
ness of  a  gentleman  and  the  coolness  of  a 
diplomat.  The  Count  Olaf  Labinski's  mus- 
tache may  displease  M.  Octave  de  Saville, 
and,  every  day,  feet  are  trodden  on  at  the  exit 
of  the  Opera.  I  trust  that  my  words,  though 
obscure,  will  have  no  ambiguity  for  you,  and 
that  my  seconds  will  come  to  a  perfect  under- 
standing with  yours  as  to  the  hour,  the  place, 
and  the  conditions  of  the  duel." 


152  TALES  BEFORE  SUPPER. 

This  letter  threw  Octave  into  a  quandary. 
He  could  not  refuse  the  count's  challenge,  and 
yet  it  went  against  him  to  fight  with  himself,  for 
he  had  kept  a  sort  of  tenderness  for  his  old 
envelope.  The  idea  of  being  forced  into  this 
duel  by  some  open  insult  made  him  decide  to 
accept  it,  though  if  necessary  he  could  have 
put  his  adversary  into  a  lunatic's  strait-jacket 
and  thus  stayed  his  arm ;.  but  his  delicacy  re- 
volted at  such  a  method.  If  carried  along  by 
an  overpowering  passion  he  had  committed  a 
reprehensible  action  and  hidden  the  lover  un- 
der the  disguise  of  the  husband  to  triumph 
over  a  virtue  above  all  seduction,  he  was  still 
a  man  not  without  honor  and  courage.  Beside, 
he  had  not  taken  this  extreme  step  until,  after 
three  years  of  struggle  and  suffering,  the  mo- 
ment had  arrived  when  his  life,  consumed  by 
love,  was  escaping  him.  He  did  not  know  the 
count ;  he  was  not  his  friend,  he  owed  him 
nothing,  and  he  had  profited  by  the  hazard- 
ous means  which  Dr.  Balthazar  Cherbonneau 
had  offered  to  him. 

Where  find  seconds  ?  Of  course  among  the 
count's  friends  ;  but  Octave  in  the  one  day  he 
had  lived  in  the  house  had  had  no  chance  to 
meet  them. 

On  the  mantelpiece  were  two  vases  of  china 
with  gold  dragons  for  handles.  One  held 
rings,  pins,  seals,  and  other  trifling  jewels,  — 


AVATAR.  153 

the  other,  visiting  cards,  on  which,  under  the 
coronet  of  duke,  marquis,  or  count,  were  in- 
scribed by  skilled  engravers  in  Gothic,  round, 
or  English  type  a  multitude  of  names,  Polish, 
Russian,  Hungarian,  German,  Italian,  Span- 
ish, and  attesting  the  roving  existence  of  the 
count,  who  had  friends  in  every  land. 

Octave  took  two  hap-hazard  :  Count  Zamoi- 
eczki  and  the  Marquis  de  Sepulveda.  He 
ordered  the  carriage,  and  drove  to  their  ad- 
dresses. He  found  them  both  in.  They  did 
not  appear  surprised  at  the  request  of  the 
man  whom  they  thought  Count  Olaf  Labinski. 
Totally  devoid  of  the  sensitiveness  of  middle- 
class  seconds,  they  did  not  ask  if  the  affair 
could  be  compromised,  and  like  the  perfect 
gentlemen  they  were  maintained  a  silence  ful) 
of  good  taste  as  to  the  motive  of  the  quarrel. 

On  his  side,  the  real  count,  or,  if  you  like 
it  better,  the  pseudo-Octave,  was  a  prey  to  a 
similar  embarrassment.  He  remembered  Al- 
fred Humbert  and  Gustave  Raimbaud,  whose 
breakfast  he  had  refused  to  attend,  and  he 
requested  them  to  help  him  in  this  encounter. 
The  two  young  men  showed  considerable  sur- 
prise at  rinding  their  friend  involved  in  a  duel, 
for  he  had  hardly  left  his  room  in  a  year,  and 
they  knew  his  character  was  more  pacific  than 
quarrelsome.  But  when  he  had  told  them 
that  it  was  a  mortal  combat,  they  made  no 


154  TALES  BEFORE  SUPPER. 

further  objections,  and  went  to  the  Hotel  La- 
binski. 

The  conditions  were  soon  arranged.  The 
adversaries  having  declared  that  sword  or  pis- 
tol suited  them  equally  well,  a  gold  coin  thrown 
in  the  air  decided  the  weapon.  They  were  to 
meet  in  the  Avenue  des  Poteaux  of  the  Bois 
de  Boulogne,  near  the  rustic  thatched  summer- 
house,  where  the  fine  gravel  offers  a  favorable 
arena  for  this  sort  of  combat. 

When  all  was  settled  it  was  nearly  midnight, 
and  Octave  went  to  the  door  of  Prascovie's 
apartment.  As  on  the  previous  evening  it 
was  bolted,  and  the  countess'  mocking  voice 
flung  this  sarcasm  at  him  through  the  door,  — 

"  Come  back  when  you  know  Polish ;  I  am 
too  patriotic  to  receive  a  foreigner." 

Notified  by  Octave,  Dr.  Cherbonneau  came 
in  the  morning,  carrying  a  case  of  surgical 
instruments  and  a  roll  of  bandages.  They 
entered  a  carriage  together,  MM.  Zamoieczki 
and  de  Sepulveda  following  in  their  coupd. 

"Well,  my  dear  Octave,"  said  the  physician  ; 
"  so  the  adventure  is  already  turning  into  trag- 
edy ?  I  ought  to  have  let  the  count  sleep  in 
your  body  on  my  divan  for  a  week.  I  have 
prolonged  magnetic  slumbers  beyond  that 
limit.  But  even  when  one  has  learned  wis- 
dom from  the  Brahmans,  the  Pandit,  and  the 
Sanniasys  of  India,  one  always  forgets  some- 


AVATAR.  155 

thing,  and  imperfections  are  found  in  the 
best  combined  plans.  But  how  did  Countess 
Prascovie  welcome  her  Florence  lover  thus 
disguised  ?  " 

"  I  think,"  replied  Octave,  "  that  either  she 
recognized  me  notwithstanding  my  metamor- 
phosis, or  else  her  guardian  angel  whispered  in 
her  ear  to  distrust  me.  I  found  her  as  chaste, 
as  cold,  as  pure,  as  polar  snow.  Doubtless 
her  exquisite  nature  divined  a  stranger  under 
the  beloved  form  of  her  husband.  I  told  you 
truly  that  you  could  do  nothing  for  me ;  indeed 
I  am  even  more  unhappy  than  when  you  paid 
me  your  first  visit." 

"Who  can  fix  a  boundary  to  the  soul's 
power,"  said  Dr.  Balthazar  Cherbonneau 
thoughtfully,  "  especially  when  it  is  weakened 
by  no  earthly  preoccupation,  soiled  by  no  hu- 
man tie,  and  keeps  itself  in  the  glow  and 
contemplation  of  love  just  as  it  left  the  Crea- 
tor's hands  ?  Yes,  you  are  right ;  she  recog- 
nized you,  her  heavenly  modesty  shrank  at  the 
look  of  desire,  and  instinctively  veiled  itself 
with  its  white  wings.  I  pity  you,  my  poor 
Octave  !  Your  wound  is  indeed  immedicable. 
Were  we  in  the  Middle  Ages,  I  should  say,  Get 
thee  to  a  monastery." 

"  I  have  often  thought  of  it,"  replied  Octave. 

Presently  they  reached  the  meeting  ground. 
The  counterfeit  Octave's  brougham  was  al- 
ready at  the  place  designated. 


156  TALES  BEFORE  SUPPER. 

At  this  early  hour  the  Bois  presented  a 
really  picturesque  aspect,  which  later  in  the 
day  fashion  makes  it  lose.  Summer  was  at 
that  stage  when  the  sun  has  not  yet  had  time 
to  darken  the  green  of  the  foliage ;  fresh, 
translucent  tints,  washed  by  the  night's  dew, 
variegated  the  forest,  and  gave  out  an  odor  of 
tender  vegetation.  At  this  spot  the  trees  are 
particularly  fine  ;  perhaps  because  they  have 
encountered  a  more  favorable  soil,  or  because 
they  are  the  only  survivors  of  some  old  plan- 
tation. Their  vigorous  trunks,  stained  with 
moss  or  glossed  with  a  silvery  bark,  clutch 
the  earth  with  gnarled  roots,  and  project  oddly 
bent  branches.  They  might  have  served  as 
models  for  the  studies  of  artists  and  decora- 
tors who  go  much  further  to  seek  less  remark- 
able ones.  A  few  birds,  which  later  the  day's 
noises  silence,  chirped  gayly  in  the  leafy  re- 
treat ;  a  timid  rabbit  crossed  the  gravel  of  the 
alley  in  three  bounds  and  ran  to  hide  in  the 
grass,  frightened  at  the  sound  of  the  wheels. 

These  poems  of  nature  surprised  in  undress 
occupied  the  two  adversaries  and  their  sec- 
onds very  little,  as  you  can  imagine.  The 
sight  of  Dr.  Balthazar  Cherbonneau  made  a 
disagreeable  impression  on  Count  Olaf  La- 
binski,  but  he  recovered  himself  quickly. 

The  swords  were  measured,  their  places 
assigned  to  the  combatants,  who  after  taking 
off  their  coats  fell  into  position. 


AVATAR.  157 

"  Ready !  "  the  seconds  cried. 

In  every  duel,  no  matter  what  the  fury  of 
the  adversaries  may  be,  there  is  a  moment  of 
solemn  immobility :  each  combatant  silently 
studies  his  enemy  and  makes  his  plan,  reflect- 
ing on  the  attack  and  preparing  to  parry  and 
thrust.  Then  the  swords  seek,  provoke,  and 
feel  each  other,  so  to  speak,  without  separat- 
ing; that  lasts  several  seconds,  which  seem 
minutes,  hours,  to  the  anxiety  of  the  assist- 
ants. 

The  conditions  of  this  duel,  apparently  com- 
monplace to  the  spectators,  were  so  abnormal 
for  the  combatants  that  they  remained  thus 
on  guard  longer  than  is  customary.  Each  had 
in  front  of  him  his  own  body,  and  must  drive 
the  steel  into  flesh  which  had  belonged  to 
himself  two  days  before. 

The  fight  was  complicated  by  a  sort  of  un- 
foreseen suicide,  and,  though  both  were  brave, 
yet  Octave  and  the  count  felt  an  instinctive 
horror  at  standing,  sword  in  hand,  face  to 
face  with  their  own  phantoms,  and  ready  to 
fall  on  themselves.  The  impatient  seconds 
were  about  to  cry  again,  "  Gentlemen,  are  you 
ready !  "  when  at  last  the  blades  crossed. 

Several  attacks  were  parried  with  agility  on 
each  side. 

Thanks  to  his  military  education,  the  count 
was  a  skillful  fencer ;  he  had  pinked  the  plas- 


1 58  TALES  BEFORE  SUPPER. 

tron  of  the  most  famous  masters.  But  if  he 
still  had  the  method  he  no  longer  possessed 
the  muscular  arm  which  had  routed  the 
Mourides  of  Schamyl ;  it  was  Octave's  weak 
wrist  which  wielded  his  sword. 

Octave  on  the  contrary  felt,  in  the  count's 
body,  an  unaccustomed  strength,  and  though 
less  expert,  he  always  parried  the  steel  which 
sought  his  breast. 

It  was  in  vain  that  Olaf  strove  to  touch  his 
adversary  and  risked  thrusts  which  exposed 
himself.  Octave,  cooler  and  more  steady, 
baffled  every  feint. 

The  count  began  to  get  excited,  and  his  play 
grew  nervous  and  uneven.  Though  he  would 
then  have  to  remain  Octave  de  Saville,  he 
wanted  to  kill  this  deceptive  body  which 
might  even  deceive  Prascovie  —  a  thought 
which  lashed  him  into  an  inexpressible  rage. 

At  the  risk  of  being  run  through,  he  tried  a 
straight  thrust  to  reach,  through  his  own  body, 
the  life  and  heart  of  his  rival  ;  but  Octave's 
sword  wound  round  his  with  such  a  quick, 
sharp,  irresistible  movement  that  the  steel 
was  wrenched  from  his  hand,  and  springing 
in  the  air  fell  several  steps  away. 

Olaf's  life  was  at  Octave's  disposal ;  he  had 
only  to  thrust  and  run  him  through. 

The  count's  face  quivered ;  not  that  he 
feared  death,  but  he  thought  that  he  was  about 


AVATAR.  159 

to  leave  his  wife  to  this  body-thief  whom  noth- 
ing hereafter  could  unmask. 

Far  from  profiting  by  his  advantage,  Octave 
threw  down  his  sword,  and  motioning  to  the 
seconds  not  to  interfere  walked  towards  the 
stupefied  count,  whom  he  took  by  the  arm  and 
dragged  into  the  depth  of  the  wood. 

"  What  do  you  want  with  me  ?  "  said  the 
count.  "  Why  not  kill  me  when  you  have  the 
chance  ?  Why  not  continue  the  duel  after 
letting  me  recover  my  sword  if  it  revolts  you 
to  strike  an  unarmed  man  ?  You  know  that 
the  sun  should  not  cast  the  shadows  of  both 
of  us  on  the  ground,  and  that  the  earth  must 
receive  one  or  the  other." 

"  Listen  to  me  patiently,"  replied  Octave. 
"  Your  happiness  is  in  my  hands.  I  can  keep 
forever  this  body  in  which  I  dwell  to-day  and 
which  in  legitimate  propriety  belongs  to  you. 
It  suits  me  to  acknowledge  this  now  that  there 
are  no  witnesses  near  us,  and  only  the  wild 
birds,  who  never  repeat,  can  hear.  Count  Olaf 
Labinski,  whom  I  represent  as  well  as  I  can, 
is  a  better  fencer  than  Octave  de  Saville,  whose 
form  you  now  have,  and  which  I,  much  to  my 
regret,  would  be  obliged  to  suppress.  This 
death,  though  not  real,  as  my  soul  would  sur- 
vive, would  desolate  my  mother." 

Recognizing  the  truth  of  these  remarks,  the 
count  maintained  an  acquiescent  silence. 


160  TALES  BEFORE  SUPPER, 

"  If  I  should  oppose  it,"  continued  Octave, 
"you  would  never  succeed  in  reintegrating 
your  identity;  you  see  in  what  your  two  at- 
tempts ended.  Other  trials  would  stamp  you 
as  a  monomaniac.  No  one  would  believe  a 
word  of  your  allegations,  and,  as  you  have 
already  been  able  to  convince  yourself,  when 
you  pretended  to  be  Count  Olaf  Labinski 
every  one  would  laugh  in  your  face.  You 
would  be  shut  up,  and  you  would  pass  the 
rest  of  your  life  protesting  under  the  shower- 
bath  that  you  were  actually  the  husband  of  the 
beautiful  Countess  Prascovie  Labinska.  Com- 
passionate souls  would  say  on  hearing  you  : 
Poor  Octave  !  And  you  would  be  disowned 
like  Balzac's  Chabert  who  wished  to  prove  he 
was  not  dead." 

This  was  all  so  mathematically  true  that 
the  discouraged  count  let  his  head  fall  on  his 
breast. 

"  As  you  are  at  present  Octave  de  Saville 
you  have  doubtless  searched  his  desk  and 
rummaged  among  his  papers,  and  you  are  not 
ignorant  that  for  three  years  he  has  nourished 
for  the  Countess  Prascovie  Labinska  a  desper- 
ate, hopeless  love,  which  he  has  tried  in  vain 
to  tear  from  his  heart,  and  which  will  only 
leave  him  with  his  life,  unless  it  follows  him  to 
the  tomb." 

"Yes,  I  know  it,"  said  the  count,  biting  his 
lip. 


AVATAR.  l6l 

"  Well,  to  reach  her  I  have  employed  terrible 
means,  on  which  a  delirious  passion  alone  would 
venture.  Dr.  Cherbonneau  has  attempted  for 
me  a  task  that  would  startle  the  thaumatur- 
gists  of  the  universe.  After  putting  us  both 
to  sleep  he  changed  the  envelopes  of  our  souls. 
But  in  vain !  I  will  return  you  your  body  : 
Prascovie  does  not  love  me  !  Under  the  hus- 
band's form  she  recognized  the  lover's  soul ; 
her  look  was  the  same  on  the  threshold  of  the 
conjugal  apartment  as  in  the  garden  of  the 
Villa  Salviati." 

Octave's  tone  betrayed  such  true  sorrow 
that  the  count  had  faith  in  his  words. 

"I  am  a  lover,"  added  Octave,  smiling, 
"  and  not  a  thief,  and  as  the  only  thing  which 
I  desired  in  this  world  cannot  belong  to  me, 
I  do  not  see  why  I  should  keep  your  titles, 
castles,  lands,  money,  horses,  and  weapons. 
There,  give  me  your  arm ;  let  us  appear  recon- 
ciled, thank  our  seconds,  take  with  us  Dr. 
Cherbonneau,  and  return  to  the  magical  labo- 
ratory from  which  we  came  forth  transformed. 
The  old  Brahman  will  know  how  to  undo  his 
work." 

"  Gentlemen,"  said  Octave,  sustaining  for 
a  little  longer  the  part  of  Count  Olaf  Labinski, 
"my  adversary  and  I  have  exchanged  confi- 
dential explications  which  render  the  contin- 
uation of  the  duel  useless.  There  is  nothing 


1 62  TALES  BEFORE  SUPPER. 

like  crossing  swords  a  bit  to  clear  the  minds 
of  sensible  people." 

MM.  Zamoieczki  and  de  Sepulveda  reen- 
tered  their  carriage,  and  Alfred  Humbert  and 
Gustave  Raimbaud  regained  theirs,  while 
Count  Olaf  Labinski,  Octave  de  Saville,  and 
Dr.  Cherbonneau  drove  at  full  speed  towards, 
the  Rue  du  Regard. 


XII. 

DURING  the  transit  from  the  Bois  de  Bou- 
logne to  the  Rue  du  Regard,  Octave  de  Saville 
said  to  Dr.  Cherbonneau,  — 

"  My  dear  doctor,  I  am  about  to  test  your 
science  once  more  ;  you  must  restore  our  souls, 
each  to  its  customary  habitation.  That  should 
not  be  difficult  for  you.  I  hope  that  Count 
Labinski  will  not  be  angry  at  you  for  having 
made  him  change  a  palace  for  a  hovel,  and 
lodging  his  illustrious  personality  for  some 
hours  in  my  poor  individuality.  But  then,  you 
possess  a  power  which  fears  nothing." 

With  an  acquiescent  gesture  Dr.  Balthazar 
Cherbonneau  replied  :  "  The  operation  will  be 
much  simpler  this  time ;  the  imperceptible 
filaments  which  hold  the  soul  to  the  body 
have  with  you  been  recently  broken,  and  have 
not  had  time  to  be  renewed,  and  your  minds 


AVATAR.  163 

will  not  form  that  obstacle  which  the  instinctive 
resistance  of  the  magnetized  opposes  to  the 
magnetizer.  The  count  will  doubtless  pardon 
an  old  erudite  like  myself  for  not  having  been 
able  to  resist  the  pleasure  of  putting  in  practice 
an  experiment  for  which  one  finds  but  few  sub- 
jects, and  particularly  as  this  attempt  has  only 
served  to  brilliantly  confirm  a  virtue  which 
carries  delicacy  to  divination  and  triumphs 
where  every  other  would  have  succumbed.  If 
you  wish,  you  can  look  on  this  momentary 
transformation  as  a  strange  dream,  and  per- 
haps, later,  you  will  not  be  sorry  to  have  ex- 
perienced the  odd  sensation,  which  few  men 
have  known,  of  having  inhabited  two  bodies. 
Metempsychosis  is  not  a  new  doctrine ;  but 
before  transmigrating  into  another  existence 
the  souls  drink  the  cup  of  forgetfulness,  and 
every  one  cannot,  like  Pythagoras,  remember 
to  have  assisted  at  the  Trojan  war." 

"  The  benefit  of  being  reinstalled  in  my  own 
individuality,"  the  count  answered  politely, 
"  equals  the  unpleasantness  of  having  been 
expropriated  from  it ;  this  is  said  without  ill- 
feeling  for  M.  Octave  de  Saville,  whom  I  still 
am,  and  whom  I  am  about  to  cease  to  be." 

Octave  smiled  with  the  lips  of  Count  Labin- 
ski  at  this  sentence  which  could  only  reach 
him  through  another's  envelope,  and  silence 
established  itself  between  these  three  persons 


164  TALES  BEFORE  SUPPER. 

whose  abnormal  situation  rendered  all  convor- 

sation  difficult. 

The  unfortunate  Octave  thought  of  his  van- 
ished hope,  and  his  reflections  were  not,  it 
must  be  owned,  precisely  rose-color.  Like  all 
repulsed  lovers,  he  still  asked  himself  why  he 
was  not  loved  —  as  if  love  had  a  why !  The 
only  reason  one  can  give.it  is  the  because,  a 
reply  logical  in  its  obstinate  laconism,  and 
which  women  oppose  to  all  embarrassing  ques- 
tions. Nevertheless,  he  recognized  his  defeat, 
and  felt  that  the  spring  of  life,  which  for  an 
instant  Dr.  Cherbonneau  had  renovated  for 
him,  was  newly  broken,  and  rattled  in  his  heart 
like  that  of  a  watch  dropped  on  the  ground. 
Octave  would  not  have  caused  his  mother  the 
sorrow  of  his  suicide;  and  he  sought  a  spot 
wherein  he  might  extinguish  his  unknown  grief 
quietly  under  the  scientific  name  of  a  plausible 
illness.  Had  he  been  an  artist,  poet,  or  musi- 
cian, he  would  have  crystallized  his  pain  in 
masterpieces ;  and  Prascovie,  robed  in  white, 
crowned  with  stars,  like  Dante's  Beatrice, 
would  have  hovered  about  his  inspiration  like 
an  angel  of  light ;  but,  as  has  been  intimated 
at  the  beginning  of  this  story,  though  well  in- 
structed and  gifted,  Octave  was  not  one  of  those 
chosen  spirits  who  imprint  on  this  earth  the 
trace  of  their  passage.  In  his  obscure  sublimity 
he  only  knew  how  to  love  and  die. 


AVATAR.  165 

The  carriage  entered  the  court  of  the  old 
hotel  in  the  Rue  du  Regard,  a  court  whose 
pavement  was  set  in  green  grass  through  which 
the  visitors'  steps  had  worn  a  path,  and  which 
the  high  gray  walls  of  the  building  inundated 
with  shadow,  like  that  which  falls  from  a  clois> 
ter's  arcades ;  Silence  and  Immobility,  like  in^ 
visible  statues,  watched  on  the  threshold  pro- 
tecting the  meditations  of  the  erudite. 

When  Octave  and  the  count  had  alighted, 
the  physician  jumped  from  the  carriage  with  a 
lighter  step  than  one  would  have  expected 
from  his  age,  without  even  leaning  on  the  arm 
which  the  footman  offered  to  him  with  that 
politeness  which  servants  of  large  establish- 
ments affect  towards  old  or  feeble  persons. 

As  soon  as  the  double  doors  had  closed  on 
them,  Olaf  and  Octave  felt  themselves  wrapped 
in  the  hot  atmosphere  which  recalled  to  the 
physician  that  of  India,  and  in  which  only  he 
could  breathe  at  his  ease,  but  which  almost 
suffocated  those  who  had  not,  like  him,  been 
for  thirty  years  terrified  in  tropical  suns.  The 
incarnations  of  Vishnu  still  leered  in  their 
frames,  weirder  by  day  than  by  lamplight ; 
Shiva,  the  blue  god,  sneered  on  his  pedestal ; 
and  Dourga,  biting  his  callous  lip  with  his  wild 
boar's  tusks,  seemed  to  agitate  his  chaplet  of 
skulls.  The  apartment  retained  its  magical 
and  mysterious  appearance.  Dr.  Balthazar 


1 66  TALES  BEFORE  SUPPER. 

Cherbonneau  led  his  two  subjects  to  the  room 
where  the  first  transformation  had  taken  place. 
He  turned  the  glass  disk  of  the  electric  ma- 
chine, shook  the  iron  rods  of  the  mesmeric 
battery,  opened  the  hot-air  registers  to  make 
the  temperature  rise  rapidly,  read  two  or  three 
lines  from  parchments  so  ancient  that  they  re- 
sembled old  bark  ready  to  crumble  into  dust, 
and,  when  several  minutes  had  elapsed,  said 
to  Octave  and  the  count,  — 

"  Gentlemen,  I  am  at  your  service  ;  shall  we 
begin  ? " 

While  the  physician  was  making  these  prep- 
arations, disquieting  reflections  passed  through 
the  count's  mind. 

"  When  I  am  asleep,  what  is  this  old  lugubri- 
ous-faced magician,  who  might  be  the  devil 
himself,  going  to  do  with  my  soul  ?  Will  he 
restore  it  to  my  body,  or  will  he  carry  it  off  to 
hell  with  him  ?  Is  not  this  exchange,  which 
ought  to  give  me  back  my  happiness,  a  Mach- 
iavellian combination  for  some  sorcery  whose 
end  escapes  me  ?  Still,  my  position  could  not 
be  worse.  Octave  possesses  my  body,  and,  as 
he  wisely  remarked  this  morning,  in  reclaiming 
it  with  my  present  figure  I  should  cause  my- 
self to  be  shut  up  as  a  lunatic.  If  he  wished 
to  put  me  definitely  out  of  his  way,  he  had  only 
to  drive  in  the  point  of  his  sword ;  I  was  dis- 
armed, at  his  mercy ;  the  justice  of  man  could 


AVATAR.  167 

have  said  nothing  against  it ;  the  form  of  the 
duel  was  perfectly  regular,  and  it  would  have 
been  done  all  in  order.  I  must  think  of  Pras- 
covie  and  have  no  childish  fears.  Let  me  try 
the  only  way  which  is  left  me  to  regain  her !  " 

And,  like  Octave,  he  grasped  the  rod  which 
Dr.  Balthazar  Cherbonneau  presented  to  him. 

Overpowered  by  the  metal  conductors, 
charged  to  the  utmost  with  electric  fluid,  the 
two  young  men  sank  into  an  unconsciousness 
so  profound  that  to  any  one  unprepared  for  it 
it  would  have  resembled  death.  The  physician 
made  the  passes,  performed  the  rites,  pro- 
nounced the  syllables  as  on  the  first  occasion, 
and  soon  two  luminous  stars  appeared  above 
Octave  and  the  count.  The  physician  led  to 
its  original  abode  Count  Olaf  Labinski's  soul, 
which  followed  the  electrician's  gesture  with 
an  eager  flight. 

During  this  time  Octave's  soul  moved 
slowly  from  Olaf's  body,  and  instead  of  re- 
joining its  own,  rose,  rose  as  if  glad  to  be 
free,  and  appeared  indifferent  to  its  prison. 
The  physician  was  touched  with  pity  for  the 
fluttering,  winged  Psyche,  and  asked  himself 
if  it  were  a  kindness  to  bring  it  back  to  this 
vale  of  misery.  In  this  momentary  hesitation 
the  soul  continued  to  ascend.  Remembering 
his  part,  M.  Cherbonneau  repeated  with  the 
most  imperious  accent  the  irresistible  monosyl- 


1 68  TALES  BEFORE  SUPPER. 

lable,  and  made  a  pass  pregnant  with  volition, 
but  the  tiny  quivering  spark  was  already  out  of 
the  circle  of  attraction,  and  swiftly  traversing 
the  upper  pane  of  the  window  it  disappeared. 

The  physician  ceased  making  efforts  which 
he  knew  to  be  useless,  and  awakened  the 
count,  who,  seeing  himself  in  a  mirror  with  his 
usual  features,  gave  a  cry  of  joy,  threw  a  glance 
at  Octave's  immobile  body  to  make  sure  that 
he  was  thoroughly  clear  of  that  envelope,  and 
with  a  nod  of  farewell  to  M.  Balthazar  Cher- 
bonneau  rushed  away. 

A  few  seconds  later  the  muffled  roll  of  a 
carriage  under  the  arch  was  heard,  and  Dr. 
Balthazar  Cherbonneau  was  alone  face  to  face 
with  the  corpse  of  Octave  de  Saville. 

"  By  the  trunk  of  Ganesa  !  "  exclaimed  the 
pupil  of  the  Brahman  of  Elephanta  when  the 
count  had  gone,  "  this  is  a  provoking  affair.  I 
opened  the  cage-door,  the  bird  flew  away,  and 
now  it  is  already  beyond  the  sphere  of  this 
world,  so  far  indeed  that  the  Sannyasi  Brahma- 
Logum  himself  could  not  overtake  it,  and  here 
am  I  with  a  corpse  on  my  hands.  It  is  true. 
I  can  dissolve  it  in  a  corrosive  bath  of  such 
strength  that  not  an  appreciable  atom  will  re- 
main, or  I  can  make  of  it  in  a  few  hours  a  beau- 
tiful mummy,  like  those  inclosed  in  cases  cov- 
ered with  variegated  hieroglyphs  ;  but  inquiries 
will  be  started,  my  dwelling  searched,  my  chests 


AYATAR.  169 

opened,  myself  subjected  to  all  serts  of  tire- 
some questions "...  Here  a  bright  idea 
crossed  the  physician's  mind  ;  he  seized  a  pen 
and  wrote  rapidly  a  few  lines  on  a  sheet  of 
paper,  which  he  put  in  the  drawer  of  his  table. 

The  paper  contained  these  words  : 

"  Having  neither  relatives  nor  connections, 
I  bequeath  all  my  belongings  to  M.  Octave 
de  Saville,  for  whom  I  have  a  particular  affec- 
tion, on  condition  that  he  pays  a  legacy  of 
one  hundred  thousand  francs  to  the  Brahmanic 
hospital  of  Ceylon  for  old,  worn-out,  and  sick 
animals  ;  that  he  gives  twelve  hundred  francs 
yearly  for  life  to  my  Indian  and  to  my  Eng- 
lish servant ;  and  that  he  sends  the  manuscript 
of  the  laws  of  Manu  to  the  Mazarin  library." 

This  testament  made  to  a  dead  man  by  a  liv- 
ing one  is  not  the  strangest  thing  in  this  story, 
improbable  yet  true ;  but  the  singularity  of  it 
will  be  at  once  explained. 

The  physician  felt  Octave  de  Saville's  body, 
from  which  the  warmth  of  life  had  not  yet  de- 
parted, looked  in  the  glass,  with  a  singularly 
disdainful  air,  at  his  own  wrinkled  face,  tanned 
and  rough  like  a  zebra's  skin,  and  making 
over  his  head  the  motion  with  which  one 
throws  off  an  old  coat  when  the  tailor  brings  a 
new  one,  he  muttered  the  formula  of  the  San- 
nyasi  Brahma-Logum. 

Immediately,  Dr.  Balthazar   Cherbonneau's 


1 70  TALES  BEFORE  SUPPER. 

body  fell  to  the  floor  as  if  struck  by  a  thunder- 
bolt, and  that  of  Octave  de  Saville  rose  up  in 
full  strength  and  activity. 

Octave-Cherbonneau  stood  for  some  minutes 
before  the  thin,  bony,  and  livid  carcass,  which, 
no  longer  upheld  by  the  powerful  spirit  that 
had  before  animated  it,  at  once  took  on  a  look 
of  complete  senility,  and  rapidly  assumed  a 
cadaverous  appearance. 

"  Farewell,  poor  human  remnant,  miserable 
out-at-elbow  garment,  frayed  at  every  seam, 
which  for  seventy  years  I  have  dragged  about 
the  five  parts  of  the  globe  !  You  did  me  good 
service,  and  I  do  not  leave  you  without  regret. 
One  gets  accustomed  to  living  so  long  together ! 
but  with  this  young  envelope,  which  my  sci- 
ence will  soon  make  robust,  I  can  study,  work, 
and  read  still  a  few  words  more  in  the  great 
book  before  Death,  saying  '  It  is  enough ! ' 
closes  it  at  the  most  interesting  paragraph  !  " 

After  this  funeral  oration,  addressed  to  him- 
self, Octave-Cherbonneau  went  forth  with  a 
tranquil  step  to  take  possession  of  his  new 
existence. 

Count  Olaf  Labinski  had  returned  to  his 
house  and  had  immediately  sent  to  ask  if  the 
countess  could  receive  him. 

He  found  her  in  the  conservatory  seated  on 
a  bank  of  moss  amid  a  virgin  forest  of  exotic 


AVATAR.  171 

and  tropical  plants.  The  half  raised  panes 
of  glass  admitted  the  warm,  bright  air.  She 
was  reading  Novalis,  one  of  the  most  subtile, 
rarefied,  and  immaterial  authors  which  Ger- 
man spiritualism  has  produced.  The  countess 
did  not  like  books  which  paint  existence  in 
strong,  real  colors  ;  and,  from  having  lived  in  a 
world  of  elegance,  love,  and  poetry,  life  ap- 
peared to  her  a  trifle  coarse. 

She  threw  down  her  book  and  slowly  lifted 
her  eyes  to  the  count.  She  feared  to  encoun- 
ter again  in  her  husband's  dark  pupils  that  ar- 
dent, stormy  look,  full  of  mysterious  thoughts, 
which  had  troubled  her  so  much,  and  which 
had  seemed  to  her  —  foolish  apprehension  — 
the  look  of  another  ! 

In  Olafs  eyes  shone  a  serene  joy,  and  a 
pure,  chaste  love  burned  in  them  with  a  steady 
fire ;  the  stranger  soul,  which  had  so  myste- 
riously changed  the  expression  of  his  features, 
was  gone  forever.  Prascovie  at  once  recognized 
her  adored  Olaf,  and  a  quick  blush  of  pleasure 
colored  her  transparent  cheeks.  Though  she 
was  ignorant  of  the  transformations  performed 
by  Dr.  Cherbonneau,  her  delicate  sensitiveness 
had  unconsciously  been  aware  of  all  these 
changes. 

"  What  are  you  reading,  dear  Prascovie  ? " 
said  Olaf,  lifting  from  the  moss  the  book 
bound  in  blue  morocco.  "  Ah  !  the  history 


IJ2  TALES  BEFORE  SUPPER. 

of  Henri  d'Ofterdingen,  —  it  is  the  same  vol- 
ume that  I  went  full  galop  to  get  you  at  Mohi- 
lev,  one  day  when  you  had  expressed  a  wish 
for  it  at  dinner.  At  midnight  it  was  on  the 
table  beside  your  lamp  ;  but  poor  Ralph  was 
broken-winded  ever  after  !  " 

"  And  I  told  you  that  I  would  never  again 
mention  the  least  desire  before  you.  You  have 
the  character  of  that  Spanish  noble  who  prayed 
his  mistress  not  to  gaze  at  the  stars,  since  he 
could  not  give  them  to  her." 

"  If  you  looked  at  one,"  replied  the  count,  "  I 
should  try  to  climb  to  heaven  and  ask  it  of 
God." 

While  listening  to  her  husband  the  countess 
smoothed  a  refractory  mesh  of  her  hair  which 
scintillated  like  a  flame  in  a  ray  of  gold.  The 
motion  had  disarranged  her  sleeve,  and  uncov- 
ered her  beautiful  arm  encircled  at  the  wrist  by 
the  turquoise-studded  lizard  which  she  wore 
on  the  day  of  her  apparition  in  the  Cascine  so 
fatal  to  Octave. 

"  What  a  fright  that  poor  little  lizard  once 
gave  you !  "  said  the  count.  "  It  was  when  you 
had,  on  my  insistent  prayer,  descended  to  the 
garden  for  the  first  time,  and  I  killed  it  with 
the  stroke  of  a  switch.  I  had  it  dipped  in 
gold  and  decorated  with  a  few  stones ;  but 
even  as  a  trinket  it  still  appeared  disagreea- 
ble to  you,  and  it  was  some  time  before  you 
could  bring  yourself  to  wear  it," 


AVATAR.  173 

"  Oh,  I  am  quite  accustomed  to  it  now,  and 
it  is  my  favorite  ornament,  for  it  recalls  a  very 
dear  remembrance." 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  count,  "  on  that  day  we 
agreed  that  on  the  morrow  I  should  make  your 
aunt  an  official  request  for  your  hand." 

The  countess  recognized  the  look  and  tone 
of  the  real  Olaf,  and  reassured  also  by  these  in- 
timate details,  she  rose  smiling,  took  his  arm, 
and  made  several  turns  about  the  conserva- 
tory with  him,  plucking  with  free  hand  as  she 
went  some  flowers  whose  petals  she  pulled  off 
with  her  fresh  lips,  looking  as  she  did  so  like 
that  Venus  of  Schiavoni's  who  is  feasting  on 
roses. 

"  As  you  have  such  a  good  memory  to-day," 
she  said,  flinging  from  her  the  flower  she  had 
been  mutilating  with  her  pearly  teeth,  "  you 
ought  to  have  recovered  the  use  of  your 
mother-tongue  .  .  .  which  yesterday  you  no 
longer  knew." 

"  If  souls  retain  a  human  language  in  para- 
dise," answered  the  count  in  Polish,  "  it  is  the 
one  my  soul  will  speak  in  heaven  to  tell  you 
that  I  love  you." 

Prascovie,  still  moving,  let  her  head  fall 
gently  on  Olaf's  shoulder. 

"  Dear  heart,"  she  murmured,  "  now  you  are 
as  I  love  you  to  be.  Yesterday  you  frightened 
me,  and  I  fled  as  from  a  stranger." 


174  TALES  BEFORE  SUPPER. 

The  next  day  Octave  de  Saville,  animated 
by  the  spirit  of  the  old  physician,  received  a 
black-edged  letter  which  begged  him  to  assist 
at  the  funeral  service  and  burial  of  M.  Baltha- 
zar Cherbonneau. 

Clothed  in  his  new  aspect,  the  physician 
followed  his  former  body  to  the  cemetery,  saw 
himself  buried,  listened  with  a  well-assumed 
air  of  regret  to  the  address  pronounced  over 
his  grave,  in  which  the  irreparable  loss  to 
science  was  deplored,  and  then  returned  to 
the  Rue  Saint  Lazare  and  awaited  the  opening 
of  the  will  he  had  made  in  his  own  favor. 

That  day  could  be  read  among  the  items  of 
the  evening  papers : 

"  Dr.  Balthazar  Cherbonneau,  known  by  his 
long  sojourn  in  India,  his  philological  knowl- 
edge, and  his  marvelous  cures,  was  yesterday 
found  dead  in  his  laboratory.  A  most  thorough 
examination  of  the  body  has  banished  all  idea 
of  a  crime.  M.  Cherbonneau  probably  suc- 
cumbed to  excessive  mental  fatigue,  or  per- 
ished in  some  audacious  experiment.  It  is 
said  that  a  will  in  the  testator's  own  hand- 
writing leaves  to  the  Mazarin  library  some  ex- 
tremely valuable  manuscripts,  and  names  as 
heir  a  young  man  belonging  to  a  distinguished 
family,  M.  O.  de  S." 


THE   VENUS   OF   ILLE. 


THE   VENUS   OF   ILLE. 

TXeis  Ijv  Sctyfc,  effTw  &  avSptas 
ical  iJTrios,  o&T<as  avSpftos  &v, 

AovKiavov    4>iAov|/ey577J. 

BY   PROSPER  MfiRIMfiE. 


I  WAS  descending  the  last  slope  of  the 
Canigou,  and  though  the  sun  was  already  set 
I  could  distinguish  on  the  plain  the  houses 
of  the  small  town  of  Ille,  towards  which  I 
directed  my  steps. 

"Of  course,"  I  said  to  the  Catalan  who 
since  the  day  before  served  as  my  guide,  "  you 
know  where  M.  de  Peyrehorade  lives?" 

"Just  don't  I,"  cried  he;  "I  know  his 
house  like  my  own,  and  if  it  were  not  so  dark 
I  would  show  it  to  you.  It  is  the  finest  in 
Ille.  He  is  rich,  M.  de  Peyrehorade  is,  and 
he  marries  his  son  to  one  richer  even  than 
he." 

"  Does  the  marriage  come  off  soon  ? "  1 
asked  him. 

"  Soon  ?  It  may  be  that  the  violins  are  al- 
ready ordered  for  the  wedding.  To-night  per- 


178  TALES  BEFORE  SUPPER. 

haps,  to  -  morrow  or  the  next  day,  how  do  I 
know  ?  It  will  take  place  at  Puygarrig,  for  it 
is  Mademoiselle  de  Puygarrig  that  the  son  is 
to  marry.  It  will  be  a  sight,  I  can  tell  you." 

I  was  recommended  to  M.  de  Peyrehorade 
by  my  friend  M.  de  P.  He  was,  I  had  been 
told,  an  antiquarian  of  much  learning  and  a 
man  of  charming  affability.  He  would  take 
delight  in  showing  me  the  ruins  for  ten  leagues 
around.  Therefore  I  counted  on  him  to  visit 
the  outskirts  of  Ille,  which  I  knew  to  be  rich 
in  memorials  of  the  Middle  Ages.  This  mar- 
riage, of  which  I  now  heard  for  the  first  time, 
upset  all  my  plans. 

"I  shall  be  a  troublesome  guest,  I  told 
myself.  But  I  am  expected;  my  arrival  has 
been  announced  by  M.  de  P. :  I  must  present 
myself." 

When  we  reached  the  plain  the  guide  said, 
"  Wager  a  cigar,  sir,  that  I  can  guess  what  you 
are  going  to  do  at  M.  de  Peyrehorade's." 

Offering  him  one,  I  answered,  "  It  is  not  very 
hard  to  guess.  At  this  hour,  when  one  has 
made  six  leagues  in  the  Canigou,  supper  is  the 
great  thing  after  all." 

"Yes,  but  to-morrow?  Here  I  wager  that 
you  have  come  to  Ille  to  see  the  idol.  I 
guessed  that  when  I  saw  you  draw  the  por- 
traits of  the  saints  at  Serrabona." 

"  The  idol !  what  idol  ?  "  This  word  had 
aroused  my  curiosity. 


THE  rEJiUS  OF  ILLE.  179 

••What!  were  you  not  told  at  Perpignan 
how  M.  de  Peyiehorade  had  found  an  idol  in 
the  earth?" 

"  You  M^aTi  to  say  an  Mrfhpn  statue  ?  " 
M  Not  at  all  A  statue  in  copper,  and  there 
is  enough  of  it  to  make  a  lot  of  big  pennies. 
She  weighs  as  much  as  a  church-belL  It  was 
deep  in  the  ground  at  the  foot  of  an  olive-tree 
that  we  got  her." 

"  You  were  present  at  the  discovery  ?  " 
"  Yes,  sir.  Two  weeks  ago  M.  de  Peyreho- 
rade  told  Jean  Coll  and  me  to  uproot  an  old 
olive-tree  which  was  frozen  last  year  when  the 
weather  as  you  know  was  very,  severe.  So 
in  working,  Jean  Coll,  who  went  at  it  with  all 
his  might,  gave  a  blow  with  his  pickaxe,  and  I 
heard  bimm  —  as  if  he  had  struck  a  bell,  and 
I  said,  What  is  that  ?  We  dug  on  and  on,  and 
there  was  a  black  hand,  which  looked  like  the 
hand  of  a  corpse,  sticking  out  of  the  earth. 
I  was  scared  to  death.  I  ran  to  M.  de  Peyre- 
horade  and  I  said  to  him,  —  *  There  are  dead 
people,  master,  under  the  oh"  ve  -  tree  !  The 
priest  must  be  called.' 

"  '  What  dead  people,'  said  he  to  me.  He 
came,  and  he  had  no  sooner  seen  the  hand, 
than  he  cried  out  *  An  antique  !  an  antique ! ' 
You  would  have  thought  he  had  found  a  treas- 
ure. And  there  he  was  with  the  pickaxe  in 
his  own  hands  struggling  and  doing  almost  as 
much  work  as  we  two." 


ISO  TALES  BEFORE  SUPPER. 

"  And  at  last  what  did  you  find  ?  " 

"A  huge  black  woman  more  than  half 
naked,  with  due  respect  to  you,  sir.  She  was 
all  in  copper,  and  M.  de  Peyrehorade  told  us 
it  was  an  idol  of  pagan  times  —  the  time  of 
Charlemagne." 

"  I  see  what  it  is,  —  some  virgin  or  other  in 
bronze  from  a  destroyed  convent." 

"  A  virgin  !  Had  it  been  one  I  should  have 
recognized  it.  It  is  an  idol,  I  tell  you ;  you 
can  see  it  in  her  look.  She  fixes  you  with  her 
great  white  eyes  —  one  might  say  she  stares 
at  you.  One  lowers  one's  eyes,  yes  indeed 
one  does,  on  looking  at  her." 

"  White  eyes  ?  Doubtless  they  are  set  in  the 
bronze.  Perhaps  it  is  some  Roman  statue." 

"  Roman  !  That 's  it.  M.  de  Peyrehorade 
says  it  is  Roman.  Oh  !  I  see  you  are  an  eru- 
dite like  himself." 

"  Is  she  complete,  well  preserved  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,  she  lacks  nothing.  It  is  a  hand- 
somer statue  and  better  finished  than  the  bust 
of  Louis  Philippe  in  colored  plaster  which  is 
in  the  town-hall.  But  with  all  that  the  face 
of  the  idol  does  not  please  me.  She  has  a 
wicked  expression,  —  and,  what  is  more,  she  is 
wicked." 

"  Wicked  !  what  has  she  done  to  you  ? " 

"  Nothing  to  me  exactly  ;  but  wait  a  minute. 
We  had  gotten  down  on  all  fours  to  stand  her 


THE  VENUS  OF  ILLE.  l8l 

upright,  and  M.  de  Peyrehorade  was  also  pull- 
ing on  the  rope,  though  he  has  not  much  more 
strength  than  a  chicken.  With  much  trouble 
we  got  her  up  straight.  I  reached  for  a 
broken  tile  to  support  her,  when  if  she  does  n't 
tumble  over  backwards  all  in  a  heap.  I  said, 
'  take  care,'  but  not  quick  enough,  for  Jean 
did  not  have  time  to  draw  away  his  leg  "  — 

"  And  it  was  hurt  ? " 

"  Broken  as  clean  as  a  vine-prop.  When  I 
saw  that  I  was  furious,  I  wanted  to  take  my 
pickaxe  and  smash  the  statue  to  pieces,  but 
M.  de  Peyrehorade  stopped  me.  He  gave 
Jean  Coll  some  money,  but  all  the  same,  he  is 
in  bed  still,  though  it  is  two  weeks  since  it 
happened,  and  the  physician  says  that  he  will 
never  walk  as  well  with  that  leg  as  with  the 
other.  It  is  a  pity,  for  he  was  our  best  runner, 
and,  after  M.  de  Peyrehorade's  son,  the  clever- 
est racquet  player.  M.  Alphonse  de  Peyreho- 
rade was  sorry  I  can  tell  you,  for  Coll  always 
played  on  his  side.  It  was  beautiful  to  see 
how  they  returned  each  other  the  balls.  They 
never  touched  the  ground." 

Chatting  in  this  way  we  entered  Ille,  and  I 
soon  found  myself  in  the  presence  of  M.  de 
Peyrehorade.  He  was  a  little  old  man,  still 
hale  and  active,  with  powdered  hair,  a  red 
nose,  and  a  jovial,  bantering  manner.  Be- 
fore opening  M.  de  P.'s  letter  he  had  seated 


1 82  TALES  BEFORE  SUPPER. 

me  at  a  well-spread  table,  and  had  presented 
me  to  his  wife  and  son  as  a  celebrated  archae- 
ologist who  was  to  draw  Roussillon  from  the 
neglect  in  which  the  indifference  of  erudites 
had  left  it. 

While  eating  heartily,  for  nothing  makes 
one  hungrier  than  the  keen  air  of  the  moun- 
tains, I  scrutinized  my  hosts.  I  have  said  a 
word  about  M.  de  Peyrehorade,  I  must  add 
that  he  was  activity  personified.  He  talked, 
got  up,  ran  to  his  library,  brought  me  books, 
showed  me  engravings,  and  filled  my  glass,  all 
at  the  same  time.  He  was  never  two  min- 
utes m  repose.  His  wife  was  a  trifle  stout,  as 
are  most  Catalans  when  they  are  over  forty 
years  of  age.  She  appeared  to  me  a  thorough 
provincial,  solely  occupied  with  her  house- 
keeping. Though  the  supper  was  sufficient 
for  at  least  six  persons,  she  hurried  to  the 
kitchen  and  had  pigeons  killed  and  a  number 
broiled,  and  she  opened  I  do  not  know  how 
many  jars  of  preserves.  In  no  time  the  table 
was  laden  with  dishes  and  bottles,  and  if  I 
had  but  tasted  of  everything  offered  me  I 
should  certainly  have  died  of  indigestion. 
Nevertheless,  at  each  dish  I  refused  they  made 
fresh  excuses.  They  feared  I  found  myself 
very  badly  off  at  Ille.  In  the  provinces  there 
were  so  few  resources,  and  of  course  Parisians 
were  fastidious  ! 


THE  VENUS  OF  ILLE.  183 

In  the  midst  of  his  parent's  comings  and 
goings  M.  kAlphonse  de  Peyrehorade  was  as 
immovable  as  rent-day.  He  was  a  tall  young 
man  of  twenty-six,  with  a  regular  and  hand- 
some countenance,  but  lacking  in  expression. 
His  height  and  his  athletic  figure  well  justi- 
fied the  reputation  of  an  indefatigable  racquet 
player  given  him  in  the  neighborhood. 

On  that  evening  he  was  dressed  in  an  ele- 
gant manner ;  that  is  to  say,  he  was  an  exact 
copy  of  a  fashion  plate  in  the  last  number  of 
the  Journal  des  Modes.  But  he  seemed  to  me 
ill  at  ease  in  his  clothes ;  he  was  as  stiff  as  a 
post  in  his  velvet  collar,  and  could  only  turn 
all  of  a  piece.  In  striking  contrast  to  his  cos- 
tume were  his  large  sunburnt  hands  and  blunt 
nails.  They  were  a  laborer's  hands  issuing 
from  the  sleeves  of  an  exquisite.  Moreover, 
though  he  examined  me  in  my  quality  of  Pari- 
sian most  curiously  from  head  to  foot,  he  only 
spoke  to  me  once  during  the  whole  evening, 
and  that  was  to  ask  me  where  I  had  bought 
my  watch-chain. 

As  the  supper  was  drawing  to  an  end  M.  de 
Peyrehorade  said  to  me  :  "  Ah !  my  dear  guest, 
you  belong  to  me  now  you  are  here.  I  shall 
not  let  go  of  you  until  you  have  seen  every- 
thing of  interest  in  our  mountains.  You  must 
learn  to  know  our  Roussillon,  and  to  do  it 
justice.  You  do  not  suspect  all  that  we  have 


1 84  TALES  BEFORE  SUPPER. 

to  show  you,  Phoenician,  Celtic,  Roman,  Ara- 
bian, and  Byzantine  monuments  ;  you  shall  see 
them  all  from  the  cedar  to  the  hyssop.  I 
shall  drag  you  everywhere,  and  will  not  spare 
you  a  single  stone." 

A  fit  of  coughing  obliged  him  to  pause.  I 
took  advantage  of  it  to  tell  him  that  I  should 
be  sorry  to  disturb  him  on  an  occasion  of  so 
much  interest  to  his  family.  If  he  would  but 
give  me  his  excellent  advice  about  the  excur- 
sions to  be  made,  I  could,  without  his  taking 
the  trouble  to  accompany  me. 

"  Ah !  you  mean  the  marriage  of  that  boy 
there,"  he  exclaimed,  interrupting  me  ;  "  stuff 
and  nonsense,  it  will  be  over  the  day  after  to- 
morrow. You  will  go  to  the  wedding  with  us, 
which  is  to  be  informal,  as  the  bride  is  in 
mourning  for  an  aunt  whose  heiress  she  is. 
Therefore,  there  will  be  no  festivities,  no  ball. 
It  is  a  pity,  though  ;  you  might  have  seen  our 
Catalans  dance.  They  are  pretty,  and  might 
have  given  you  the  desire  to  imitate  Alphonse. 
One  marriage  they  say  leads  to  another. 
Once  the  young  people  married  I  shall  be  free, 
and  we  will  bestir  ourselves.  I  beg  your  par- 
don for  boring  you  with  a  provincial  wedding. 
For  a  Parisian  tired  of  entertainments  —  and 
a  wedding  without  a  ball  at  that !  Still  you 
will  see  a  bride — a  bride  —  well,  you  shall 
tell  me  what  you  think  of  her.  But  you  are  a 


THE    VENUS  OF  ILLE.  185 

thinker  and  no  longer  notice  women.  I  have 
better  than  that  to  show  you.  You  shall  see 
something;  in  fact,  I  have  a  fine  surprise  in 
store  for  you  to-morrow." 

"  Good  heavens  !  "  said  I ;  "it  is  difficult  to 
have  a  treasure  in  the  house  without  the  public 
being  aware  of  it.  I  think  I  know  the  surprise 
in  reserve  for  me.  But  if  it  is  your  statue 
which  is  in  question,  the  description  my  guide 
gave  me  of  it  has  only  served  to  excite  my 
curiosity  and  prepared  me  to  admire." 

"  Ah !  So  he  spoke  to  you  about  the  idol, 
as  he  calls  my  beautiful  Venus  Tur ;  but  I 
will  tell  you  nothing.  To-morrow  you  shall 
see  her  by  daylight,  and  tell  me  if  I  am  right 
in  thinking  the  statue  a  masterpiece.  You 
could  not  have  arrived  more  opportunely. 
There  are  inscriptions  on  it  which  I,  poor 
ignoramus  that  I  am,  explain  after  my  own 
fashion  ;  but  you,  a  Parisian  erudite,  will  prob- 
ably laugh  at  my  interpretation  ;  for  I  have 
actually  written  a  paper  about  it,  —  I,  an  old 
provincial  antiquary,  have  launched  myself  in 
literature.  I  wish  to  make  the  press  groan.  If 
you  would  kindly  read  and  correct  it  I  might 
have  some  hope.  For  example,  I  am  very  anx- 
ious to  know  how  you  translate  this  inscription 
from  the  base  of  the  statue  :  CAVE.  But  I  do 
not  wish  to  ask  you  yet !  Wait  until  to-morrow. 
Not  a  word  more  about  the  Venus  to-day !  " 


1 86  TALES  BEFORE  SUPPER. 

"  You  are  right,  Peyrehorade,"  said  his  wife  ; 
"  drop  your  idol.  Can  you  not  see  that  you 
prevent  our  guest  from  eating  ?  You  may  be 
sure  that  he  has  seen  in  Paris  much  finer 
statues  than  yours.  In  the  Tuilleries  there  are 
dozens,  and  they  also  are  in  bronze." 

"  There  you  have  the  saintly  ignorance  of 
the  provinces  !"  interrupted  M.  de  Peyrehorade. 
"  The  idea  of  comparing  an  admirable  antique 
to  the  insipid  figures  of  Coustou  ! 

'  How  irreverently  my  housekeeper 
Speaks  of  the  gods  ! ' 

Do  you  know  that  my  wife  wanted  me  to  melt 
my  statue  into  a  bell  for  our  church.  She  would 
have  been  the  godmother.  Just  think  of  it,  to 
melt  a  masterpiece  by  Myron,  sir  !  " 

"  Masterpiece  !  Masterpiece  !  A  charming 
masterpiece  she  is  !  to  break  a  man's  leg." 

"  Madam,  do  you  see  that  ?  "  said  M.  de 
Peyrehorade  in  a  resolute  tone,  extending  to- 
ward her  his  right  leg  in  its  changeable  silk 
stocking ;  "  if  my  Venus  had  broken  that  leg 
there  for  me  I  should  not  regret  it." 

"  Good  gracious !  Peyrehorade,  how  can 
you  say  such  a  thing !  Fortunately,  the  man  is 
better.  And  yet  I  cannot  bring  myself  to  look 
at  a  statue  which  has  caused  so  great  a  disas- 
ter. Poor  Jean  Coll !  " 

"  Wounded  by  Venus,  sir,"  said  M.  de  Peyre- 


THE   VENUS  OF  !LLE.  187 

horade,  with  a  loud  laugh ;  "  wounded  by  Venus, 
and  the  churl  complains  ! 

'  Veneris  nee  praemia  noris.' 

Who  has  not  been  wounded  by  Venus  ?  " 

M.  Alphonse,  who  understood  French  better 
than  Latin,  winked  one  eye  with  an  air  of  in- 
telligence, and  looked  at  me  as  if  to  ask,  "  And 
you,  Parisian,  do  you  understand  ?  " 

The  supper  came  to  an  end.  I  had  ceased 
eating  an  hour  before.  I  was  weary,  and  I 
could  not  manage  to  hide  the  frequent  yawns 
which  escaped  me.  Madame  de  Peyrehorade 
was  the  first  to  notice  them,  and  remarked  that 
it  was  time  to  go  to  bed.  Then  followed  fresh 
apologies  for  the  poor  accommodations  I  would 
have.  I  would  not  be  as  well  off  as  in  Paris. 
It  was  so  uncomfortable  in  the  provinces ! 
Indulgence  was  needed  for  the  Roussillonnais. 
Notwithstanding  my  protests  that  after  a  tramp 
in  the  mountains  a  bundle  of  straw  would 
seem  to  me  a  delicious  couch,  they  continued 
begging  me  to  pardon  poor  country  people  if 
they  did  not  treat  me  as  well  as  they  could 
have  wished. 

Accompanied  by  M.  de  Peyrehorade  I  as- 
cended at  last  to  the  room  arranged  for  me. 
The  staircase,  the  upper  half  of  which  was  in 
wood,  ended  in  the  centre  of  a  hall,  out  of 
which  opened  several  rooms. 


1 88  TALES  BEFORE  SUPPER. 

"  To  the  right,"  said  my  host,  "  is  the  apart- 
ment which  I  propose  to  give  the  future  Ma- 
dame Alphonse.  Your  room  is  at  the  opposite 
end  of  the  corridor.  You  understand,"  he 
added  in  a  manner  which  he  meant  to  be 
sly,  —  "  you  understand  that  newly  married 
people  must  be  alone.  You  are  at  one  end  of 
the  house,  they  at  the  other." 

We  entered  a  well-furnished  room  where  the 
first  object  on  which  my  gaze  rested  was  a  bed 
seven  feet  long,  six  wide,  and  so  high  that  one 
needed  a  chair  to  climb  up  into  it. 

Having  shown  me  where  the  bell  was,  and 
assured  himself  that  the  sugar-bowl  was  full 
and  the  cologne  bottles  duly  placed  on  the 
toilet-stand,  my  host  asked  me  a  number  of 
times  if  anything  was  lacking,  wished  me  good 
night,  and  left  me  alone. 

The  windows  were  closed.  Before  undress- 
ing I  opened  one  to  breathe  the  fresh  night 
air  so  delightful  after  a  long  supper.  Facing 
me  was  the  Canigou.  Always  magnificent,  it 
appeared  to  me  on  that  particular  evening, 
lighted  as  it  was-  by  a  resplendent  moon,  as 
the  most  beautiful  mountain  in  the  world. 
I  remained  a  few  minutes  contemplating  its 
marvelous  silhouette,  and  was  about  to  close 
the  window  when,  lowering  my  eyes,  I  per- 
ceived a  dozen  yards  from  the  house  the 
statue  on  its  pedestal.  It  was  placed  at  the 


THE   VENUS  OF  ILLE.  189 

corner  of  a  hedge  that  separated  a  small  gar- 
den from  a  vast,  perfectly  level  quadrangle, 
which  I  'icvuued  later  was  the  racquet  court 
of  the  town.  This  ground  was  the  property 
of  M.  de  Peyrehorade,  and  had  been  given  by 
him  to  the  parish  at  the  solicitation  of  his  son. 

Owing  to  the  distance  it  was  difficult  for  me 
to  distinguish  the  attitude  of  the  statue  ;  I 
could  only  judge  of  its  height,  which  seemed 
to  be  about  six  feet.  At  that  moment  two 
scamps  of  the  town,  whistling  the  pretty  Rous- 
sillon  tune,  Montagues  regalades,  were  crossing 
the  racquet  court  quite  near  the  hedge.  They 
paused  to  look  at  the  statue,  and  one  of  them 
even  apostrophized  it  aloud.  He  spoke  Cata- 
lonian,  but  I  had  been  long  enough  in  Rous- 
sillon  to  understand  pretty  well  what  he  said. 

"  There  you  are,  you  wench  !  "  (The  Cata- 
lonian  word  was  much  more  forcible.)  "  There 
you  are  !  "  he  said.  '"  It  was  you  then  who 
broke  Jean  Coil's  leg  !  If  you  belonged  to  me 
I  'd  break  your  neck." 

"  Bah !  what  with  ?  "  said  the  other  youth. 
"  It  is  of  the  copper  of  pagan  times,  and  harder 
than  I  don't  know  what." 

"  If  I  had  my  chisel  "  (it  seems  he  was  a 
locksmith's  apprentice),  "  I  would  soon  force 
out  its  big  white  eyes,  as  I  would  pop  an  al- 
mond from  its  shell.  There  are  more  than  a 
hundred  pennies'  worth  of  silver  in  them." 


190  TALES  BEFORE  SUPPER. 

They  went  on  a  few  steps. 

"I  must  wish  the  idol  good -night,"  said 
the  taller  of  the  apprentices,  stopping  sud- 
denly. 

He  stooped  and  probably  picked  up  a  stone. 
I  saw  him  unbend  his  arm  and  throw  some- 
thing. A  blow  resounded  on  the  bronze,  and 
immediately  the  apprentice  raised  his  hand  to 
his  head  with  a  cry  of  pain. 

"  She  threw  it  back  at  me !  "  he  exclaimed. 
And  my  two  rascals  ran  off  as  fast  as  they 
could.  It  was  evident  that  the  stone  had  re- 
bounded from  the  metal  and  had  punished  the 
wag  for  the  outrage  he  had  done  the  goddess. 
Laughing  heartily,  I  shut  the  window. 

Another  Vandal  punished  by  Venus  !  May 
all  the  desecrators  of  our  old  monuments  thus 
get  their  due  ! 

With  this  charitable  wish  I  fell  asleep. 

When  I  awoke  it  was  broad  day.  On  one 
side  of  my  bed  stood  M.  de  Peyrehorade  in  a 
dressing-gown  ;  a  servant  sent  by  his  wife  was 
on  the  other  side  with  a  cup  of  chocolate  in 
his  hand. 

"  Come,  come,  you  Parisian,  get  up !  This 
is  quite  the  laziness  of  the  capital  !  "  said  my 
host,  while  I  dressed  in  haste.  "  It  is  eight 
o'clock,  and  you  are  still  in  bed  !  I  have  been 
up  since  six.  This  is  the  third  time  I  have 
been  to  your  door.  I  approached  on  tiptoe  : 


THE   VENUS  OF  ILLE.  191 

no  one,  not  a  sign  of  life.  It  is  bad  for  you  to 
sleep  too  much  at  your  age.  And  my  Venus, 
which  you  have  not  yet  seen  !  Come,  hurry  up 
and  take  this  cup  of  Barcelona  chocolate.  It 
is  real  contraband  chocolate,  such  as  cannot 
be  found  in  Paris.  Prepare  yourself,  for  when 
you  are  once  before  my  Venus  no  one  will  be 
able  to  tear  you  away  from  her." 

I  was  ready  in  five  minutes,  that  is  to  say, 
I  was  half  shaved,  half  dressed,  and  burnt  by 
the  boiling  chocolate  I  had  swallowed.  I  de- 
scended to  the  garden  and  saw  an  admirable 
statue  before  me.  It  was  truly  a  Venus,  and 
of  marvelous  beauty.  The  upper  part  of  the 
body  was  nude,  as  great  divinities  were  usually 
represented  by  the  ancients.  The  right  hand 
was  raised  as  high  as  the  breast,  the  palm 
turned  inwards,  the  thumb  and  two  first  fin- 
gers extended,  and  the  others  slightly  bent. 
The  other  hand,  drawn  close  to  the  hip,  held 
the  drapery  which  covered  the  lower  half  of 
the  body.  The  attitude  of  this  statue  reminded 
one  of  that  of  the  rnourre  player  which  is 
called,  I  hardly  know  why,  by  the  name  of 
Germanicus.  Perhaps  it  had  been  intended 
to  represent  the  goddess  as  playing  at  mourre. 
However  that  may  be,  it  is  impossible  to  find 
anything  more  perfect  than  the  form  of  this 
Venus,  anything  softer  and  more  voluptuous 
than  her  outlines,  or  more  graceful  and  dig- 


IQ2  TALES  BEFORE  SUPPER. 

nified  than  her  drapery.  I  had  expected -a 
work  of  the  decadence;  I  saw  a  masterpiece 
of  statuary's  best  days. 

What  struck  me  most  was  the  exquisite 
reality  of  the  figure  ;  one  might  have  thought  it 
moulded  from  life,  that  is,  if  Nature  ever  pro- 
duced such  perfect  models. 

The  hair,  drawn  back  from  the  brow,  seemed 
once  to  have  been  gilded.  The  head  was 
small,  like  nearly  all  those  of  Greek  statues, 
and  bent  slightly  forward.  As  to  the  face,  I 
shall  never  succeed  in  describing  its  strange 
character ;  it  was  of  a  type  belonging  to  no 
other  Greek  statue  which  I  can  remember.  It 
had  not  the  calm,  severe  beauty  of  the  Greek 
sculptors,  who  systematically  gave  a  majestic 
immobility  to  all  the  features.  On  the  contrary, 
I  noticed  here,  with  surprise,  a  marked  inten- 
tion on  the  artist's  part  to  reproduce  malice 
verging  on  viciousness.  All  the  features  were 
slightly  contracted.  The  eyes  were  rather  ob- 
lique, the  mouth  raised  at  the  corners,  the 
nostrils  a  trifle  dilated.  Disdain,  irony,  and 
cruelty  were  to  be  read  in  the  nevertheless 
beautiful  face. 

Truly,  the  more  one  gazed  at  the  statue  the 
more  one  experienced  a  feeling  of  pain  that 
such  wonderful  beauty  could  be  allied  to  such 
an  absence  of  all  sensibility. 

"  If  the  model  ever  existed,"  I  said  to  M.  de 


THE   VENUS  OF  ILLE.  193 

Peyrehorade,  "  and  I  doubt  if  heaven  ever  pro- 
duced such  a  woman,  how  I  pity  her  lovers  ! 
She  must  have  taken  pleasure  in  making  them 
die  of  despair.  There  is  something  ferocious 
in  her  expression,  and  yet  I  have  never  seen 
anything  more  beautiful." 

"  'C'est  Venus  tout  entire  a  saproieattachee  !'  " 
cried  M.  de  Peyrehorade,  delighted  with  my 
enthusiasm. 

But  the  expression  of  demoniac  irony  was 
perhaps  increased  by  the  contrast  of  the  bright 
silver  eyes  with  the  dusky  green  hue  which 
time  had  given  to  the  statue.  The  shining 
eyes  produced  a  sort  of  illusion  which  simu- 
lated reality  and  life.  I  remembered  what  my 
guide  had  said,  that  those  who  looked  at  her 
were  forced  to  lower  their  eyes.  It  was  almost 
true,  and  I  could  not  prevent  a  movement  of 
anger  at  myself  when  I  felt  ill  at  ease  before 
this  bronze  figure. 

"  Now  that  you  have  seen  everything  in  de- 
tail, my  dear  colleague  in  antiquities,  let  us,  if 
you  please,  open  a  scientific  conference.  What 
do  you  say  to  this  inscription  which  you  have 
not  yet  noticed  ?  "  He  pointed  to  the  base  of 
the  statue,  and  I  read  these  words  : 

CAVE  AMANTEM. 

"Quid  diets  doctissimeV  he  asked,  rubbing 
his  hands.  "  Let  us  see  if  we  agree  as  to  the 
meaning  of  cave  amantem  !  " 


194  TALES  BEFORE  SUPPER. 

"  But,"  I  replied,  "  it  has  two  meanings.  You 
can  translate  it :  '  Guard  against  him  who  loves 
thee,'  that  is,  'distrust  lovers.'  But  in  this  sense 
I  do  not  know  if  cave  amantem  would  be  good 
Latin.  After  seeing  the  diabolical  expression 
of  the  lady  I  should  sooner  believe  that  the 
artist  meant  to  warn  the  spectator  against  this 
terrible  beauty.  I  should  then  translate  it : 
'  Take  care  of  thyself  if  she  loves  thee.' " 

"  Humph  !  "  said  M.  de  Peyrehorade ;  "  yes, 
it  is  an  admissible  meaning :  but,  if  you  do 
not  mind,  I  prefer  the  first  translation,  which 
I  would,  however,  develop.  You  know  Venus's 
lover  ?  " 

"  There  are  several." 

"  Yes ;  but  the  first  is  Vulcan.  Why  should 
it  not  mean  :  '  Notwithstanding  all  thy  beauty, 
thine  air  of  disdain,  thou  wilt  have  a  black- 
smith, a  wretched .  cripple  for  a  lover  '  ?  A 
profound  lesson,  sir,  for  coquettes  !  " 

The  explication  seemed  so  far-fetched  that 
I  could  not  help  smiling. 

To  avoid  formally  contradicting  my  anti- 
quarian friend,  I  observed,  "  Latin  is  a  terrible 
language  in  its  conciseness,"  and  I  drew  back 
several  steps  to  better  contemplate  the  statue. 

"  Wait  a  moment,  colleague  !  "  said  M.  de 
Peyrehorade,  catching  hold  of  my  arm  ;  "  you 
have  not  seen  all.  There  is  another  inscrip- 
tion. Climb  up  on  the  pedestal  and  look  at 


THE   VENUS  OF  ILLE.  195 

the  right  arm."  So  saying,  he  helped  me  up, 
and  without  much  ceremony  I  clung  to  the 
neck  of  the  Venus  with  whom  I  was  becoming 
more  familiar.  For  a  second  I  even  looked 
her  straight  in  the  eyes,  and  on  close  inspec- 
tion she  appeared  more  wicked,  and,  if  possible, 
more  beautiful  than  before.  Then  I  noticed 
that  on  the  arm  were  engraved,  as  it  seemed 
to  me,  characters  in  ancient  script.  With  the 
aid  of  my  spectacles  I  spelt  out  what  follows, 
and  M.  de  Peyrehorade,  approving  with  voice 
and  gesture,  repeated  each  word  as  I  uttered 
it.  Thus  I  read  : 

VENERI  TVRBVL  .  .  . 
EVTVCHES   MYRO. 
IMPERIO   FECIT. 

After  the  word  'Tvrbvl'  in  the  first  line  it 
looked  to  me  as  if  there  were  several  letters 
effaced  ;  but  '  Tvrbvl '  was  perfectly  legible. 

"  Which  means  to  say?  "  my  host  asked  radi- 
antly, with  a  mischievous  smile,  for  he  thought 
the  '  Tvrbvl '  would  puzzle  me. 

"-There  is  one  word  which  I  do  not  yet  un- 
derstand," I  answered  ;  "  all  the  rest  is  simple. 
Eutyches  Myron  has  made  this  offering  to 
Venus  by  her  command." 

"  Quite  right.  But  '  Tvrbvl,'  what  do  you 
make  of  it  ?  What  does  it  mean  ? " 

"  '  Tvrbvl '  perplexes  me  very  much.     I  am 


196  TALES  BEFORE  SUPPER. 

trying  to  think  of  one  of  Venus's  familiar  char- 
acteristics which  may  enlighten  me.  But  what 
do  you  say  to  '  Tvrbvlenta '  ?  The  Venus  who 
troubles,  agitates.  You  see  I  am  still  preoc- 
cupied by  her  wicked  expression.  '  Tvrbvlenta ' 
is  not  too  bad  a  quality  for  Venus,"  I  added 
modestly,  for  I  was  not  too  well  satisfied  with 
my  explanation. 

"  A  turbulent  Venus !  A  noisy  Venus !  Ah  ! 
then  you  think  my  Venus  is  a  public-house 
Venus  ?  Nothing  of  the  kind,  sir  ;  she  is  a 
Venus  of  good  society.  I  will  explain  'Tvr- 
bvl'  to  you  —  that  is,  if  you  promise  me  not 
to  divulge  my  discovery  before  my  article  ap- 
pears in  print.  Because,  you  see,  I  pride  my- 
self on  such  a.,find,  and,  after  all,  you  Parisian 
erudites  are  rich  enough  to  leave  a  few  ears 
for  us  poor  devils  of  provincials  to  glean !  " 

From  the  top  of  the  pedestal,  where  I  was 
still  perched,  I  promised  him  solemnly  that  I 
would  never  be  so  base  as  to  filch  from  him 
his  discovery. 

" '  Tvrbvl,' —  sir,"  said  he,  coming  nearer  and 
lowering  his  voice  for  fear  some  one  besides 
myself  might  hear  him,  "  read  '  Tvrbvlnerae.'  " 

"  I  understand  no  better." 

"Listen  to  me  attentively.  Three  miles 
from  here  at  the  foot  of  the  mountain  is  a 
village  called  Boulternere.  The  name  is  a 
corruption  of  the  Latin  word  '  Tvrbvlnera.' 


THE   VENUS  OF  ILLE.  197 

Nothing  is  more  common  than  these  transpo- 
sitions. Boulternere  was  a  Roman  town.  I 
always  suspected  it,  but  I  could  get  no  proof 
till  now,  and  here  it  is.  This  Venus  was  the 
local  goddess  of  the  city  of  Boulternere ;  and 
the  word  Boulternere,  which  I  have  shown  is 
of  ancient  origin,  proves  something  very  curi- 
ous, namely,  that  Boulternere  was  a  Phoenician 
town  before  it  was  Roman  !  " 

He  paused  a  moment  to  take  breath  and 
enjoy  my  surprise.  I  succeeded  in  overcoming 
a  strong  inclination  to  laugh. 

" '  Tvrbvlnera '  is,  in  fact,  pure  Phoenician," 
he  continued.  "'Tvr,'  pronounce  'tour'  — 
'  Tour '  and  '  Sour '  are  the  same  word,  are 
they  not  ?  '  Sour '  is  the  Phoenician  name  of 
Tyr ;  I  do  not  need  to  recall  the  meaning  to 
you.  '  Bvl '  is  Baal ;  Bal,  Bel,  Bui  are  slight 
differences  of  pronunciation.  As  to  'Nera,' 
that  troubles  me  a  little.  I  am  tempted  to 
believe,  for  want  of  a  Phoenician  word,  that  it 
comes  from  the  Greek  v^pos,  moist,  marshy. 
In  that  case,  it  is  a  mongrel  word.  To  justify 
vrjpos  I  will  show  you  at  Boulternere  how  the 
mountain  streams  form  stagnant  pools.  Then, 
again,  the  ending  '  Nera '  may  have  been 
added  much  later  in  honor  of  Nera  Pive- 
suvia,  wife  of  Tetricus,  who  may  have  bene- 
fited the  city  of  Turbul.  But  on  account  of 
the  marshes,  I  prefer  the  etymology  of 


198  TALES  BEFORE  SUPPER. 

He  took  a  pinch  of  snuff  in  a  complacent 
way,  and  continued  : 

"  But  let  us  leave  the  Phoenicians  and  return 
to  the  inscription.  I  translate  it  then :  To 
Venus  of  Boulternere  Myron  dedicates  by  her 
order  this  statue,  his  work." 

I  took  good  care  not  to  criticise  his  etymol- 
ogy, but  I  wished  in  my  turn  to  give  a  proof 
of  penetration,  so  I  said,  — 

"  Stop  a  moment,  M.de  Peyrehorade.  Myron 
has  dedicated  something,  but  I  by  no  means 
see  that  it  is  this  statue." 

"  What !  "  he  cried,  "  was  not  Myron  a  famous 
Greek  sculptor  ?  The  talent  was  perpetuated 
in  his  family,  and  it  must  have  been  one  of  his 
descendants  who  executed  this  statue.  Noth- 
ing can  be  more  certain." 

"  But,"  I  replied,  "  on  this  arm  I  see  a  small 
hole.  I  think  it  served  to  fasten  something,  a 
bracelet  for  example,  which  this  Myron,  being 
an  unhappy  lover,  gave  to  Venus  as  an  expia- 
tory offering.  Venus  was  irritated  against  him  ; 
he  appeased  her  by  consecrating  to  her  a  gold 
bracelet.  Notice  that  fecit  is  often  used  for 
consecravit.  The  terms  are  synonymous.  I 
could  show  you  more  than  one  example  if  I 
had  at  hand  Gruter  or  Orellius.  It  is  natural 
that  a  lover  should  see  Venus  in  a  dream  and 
imagine  that  she  commands  him  to  give  a  gold 
bracelet  to  her  statue.  Myron  consecrated  the 


THE  VENUS  OF  ILLE.  199 

bracelet  to  her.  Then  the  barbarians  or  some 
other  sacrilegious  thieves  "  — 

"  Ah !  it  is  easy  to  see  you  have  written 
romances  !  "  cried  my  host,  helping  me  down 
from  the  pedestal.  "  No,  sir ;  it  is  a  work  of 
Myron's  school.  You  have  only  to  look  at  the 
workmanship  to  be  convinced  of  that." 

Having  made  it  a  rule  never  to  contradict 
self-opinionated  antiquarians,  I  bowed  with  an 
air  of  conviction,  saying,  — 

"  It  is  an  admirable  piece  of  work." 

"  Good  heavens  !  "  exclaimed  M.  de  Peyre- 
horade,  "  another  act  of  vandalism !  Some  one 
must  have  thrown  a  stone  at  my  statue  !  " 

He  had  just  perceived  a  white  mark  a  little 
above  the  bosom  of  the  Venus.  I  noticed  a 
similar  mark  on  the  fingers  of  the  right  hand. 
I  supposed  it  had  been  touched  by  the  stone 
as  it  passed,  or  that  a  bit  of  the  stone  had 
been  broken  off  as  it  struck  the  statue,  and 
had  rebounded  on  the  hand.  I  told  my  host 
of  the  insult  I  had  witnessed,  and  the  prompt 
punishment  which  had  followed  it. 

He  laughed  heartily,  and,  comparing  the 
apprentice  to  Diomede,  wished  he  might,  like 
the  Greek  hero,  see  all  his  comrades  turned 
into  white  birds. 

The  breakfast  bell  interrupted  this  classical 
conversation,  and,  as  on  the  preceding  evening, 
I  was  obliged  to  eat  enough  for  four.  Then 


2OO  TALES  BEFORE  SUPPER. 

came  M.  de  Peyrehorade's  farmers,  and,  while 
he  was  giving  them  an  audience,  his  son  led 
me  to  inspect  an  open  carriage,  which  he  had 
bought  at  Toulouse  for  his  betrothed,  and 
which  it  is  needless  to  say  I  duly  admired. 
After  that  I  went  into  the  stable  with  him, 
where  he  kept  me  a  half  hour,  boasting  about 
his  horses,  giving  me  their  genealogy,  and  tell- 
ing me  of  the  prizes  they  had  won  at  the 
county  races.  At  last  he  began  to  talk  to  me 
about  his  betrothed  in  connection  with  a  gray 
mare  which  he  intended  for  her. 

"  We  will  see  her  to-day,"  he  said.  "  I  do 
not  know  if  you  will  find  her  pretty.  In  Paris 
people  are  hard  to  please.  But  every  one  here 
and  in  Perpignan  thinks  her  lovely.  The  best 
of  it  is  that  she  is  very  rich.  Her  aunt  from 
Prades  left  her  a  fortune.  Oh  !  I  shall  be 
very  happy." 

I  was  profoundly  shocked  to  see  a  young 
man  appear  more  affected  by  the  dower  than 
by  the  beauty  of  his  bride. 

"  You  are  a  judge  of  jewels,"  continued  M. 
Alphonse  ;  "  what  do  you  think  of  this  ?  Here 
is  the  ring  I  shall  give  her  to-morrow." 

He  drew  from  his  little  finger  a  heavy  ring, 
enriched  with  diamonds,  and  fashioned  into 
two  clasped  hands,  an  allusion  which  seemed 
to  me  infinitely  poetic.  The  workmanship  was 
antique,  but  I  fancied  it  had  been  retouched 


THE    VENUS  OF  ILLE.  2OI 

to  insert  the  diamonds.  Inside  the  ring  these 
words  in  Gothic  characters  could  be  discerned  : 
Sempr1  ab  ti,  which  means,  thine  forever. 

"  It  is  a  pretty  ring,"  I  said,  "  but  the  dia- 
monds which  have  been  added  have  made  it 
lose  a  little  of  its  style." 

"  Oh !  it  is  much  handsomer  now,"  he  an- 
swered, smiling.  "There  are  twelve  hundred 
francs'  worth  of  diamonds  in  it.  My  mother 
gave  it  to  me.  It  is  a  very  old  family  ring,  — 
it  dates  from  the  days  of  chivalry.  It  was  my 
grandmother's,  who  had  it  from  her  grand- 
mother. Heaven  knows  when  it  was  made." 

"The  custom  in  Paris,"  I  said,  "is  to  give  a 
perfectly  plain  ring,  usually  composed  of  two 
different  metals,  such  as  gold  and  platina. 
The  other  ring  which  you  have  on  would  be 
very  suitable.  This  one  with  its  diamonds 
and  its  clasped  hands  is  so  thick  that  it  would 
be  impossible  to  wear  a  glove  over  it." 

"Madame  Alphonse  must  arrange  that  as 
she  pleases.  I  think  she  will  be  very  glad  to 
have  it  all  the  same.  Twelve  hundred  francs 
on  the  finger  is  pleasant.  That  other  little 
ring,"  he  added,  looking  in  a  contented  way  at 
the  plain  ring  he  wore,  "  that  one  a  woman  in 
Paris  gave  me  on  Shrove  Tuesday.  How  I 
did  enjoy  myself  when  I  was  in  Paris  two 
years  ago !  That  is  the  place  to  have  a  good 
time  !  "  and  he  sighed  regretfully. 


2O2  TALES  BEFORE  SUPPER. 

We  were  to  dine  that  day  at  Puygarrig,  with 
the  relations  of  the  bride  ;  so  we  got  in  the 
carriage,  and  drove  to  the  chateau,  which  was 
four  or  five  miles  from  Ille.  I  was  presented 
and  received  as  the  friend  of  the  family.  I 
will  not  speak  of  the  dinner,  or  the  conversa- 
tion which  followed.  I  took  but  little  part  in 
it.  M.  Alphonse  was  seated  beside  his  be- 
trothed, and  whispered  a  word  or  two  in  her 
ear  now  and  then.  As  for  her,  she  hardly 
raised  her  eyes ;  and  every  time  her  lover 
spoke  to  her  she  blushed  modestly,  but  an- 
swered without  embarrassment. 

Mademoiselle  de  Puygarrig  was  eighteen 
years  of  age.  Her  slender,  graceful  figure 
formed  a  striking  contrast  to  the  stalwart  frame 
of  her  future  husband.  She  was  not  only  beau- 
tiful, she  was  alluring.  I  admired  the  perfect 
naturalness  of  all  her  replies.  Her  kind  look, 
which  yet  was  not  free  from  a  touch  of  malice, 
reminded  me,  in  spite  of  myself,  of  my  host's 
Venus.  While  making  this  inward  comparison, 
I  asked  myself  if  the  incontestably  superior 
beauty  of  the  statue  did  not  in  great  measure 
come  from  its  tigress-like  expression  ;  for 
strength,  even  in  evil  passions,  always  arouses 
in  us  astonishment,  and  a  sort  of  involuntary 
admiration. 

"  What  a  pity,"  I  thought,  on  leaving  Puy- 
garrig, "  that  such  an  attractive  girl  should  be 


THE   VENUS  OF  ILLE.  203 

rich,  and  that  her  dowry  makes  her  sought  by 
a  man  quite  unworthy  of  her." 

While  returning  to  Ille,  I  spoke  to  Mme. 
de  Peyrehorade,  to  whom  I  thought  it  only 
proper  to  address  myself  now  and  then,  though 
I  did  not  very  well  know  what  to  say  to  her : 
"  You  must  be  strong-minded  people  in  Rous- 
sillon,"  I  said.  "  How  is  it,  madam,  that  you 
have  a  wedding  on  a  Friday  ?  We  would  be 
more  superstitious  in  Paris ;  no  one  would 
dare  be  married  on  that  day." 

"  Do  not  speak  of  it,"  she  replied  ;  "  if  it  had 
depended  on  me,  certainly  another  day  would 
have  been  chosen.  But  Peyrehorade  wished 
it,  and  I  had  to  give  in.  All  the  same,  it 
troubles  me  very  much.  Supposing  an  acci- 
dent should  happen  ?  There  must  be  some 
reason  in  it,  or  else  why  is  every  one  afraid  of 
Friday  ?  " 

"  Friday !  "  cried  her  husband,  "  is  Venus' 
day !  Just  the  day  for  a  wedding !  You  see, 
my  dear  colleague,  I  think  only  of  my  Venus. 
I  chose  Friday  on  her  account.  To-morrow, 
if  you  like,  before  the  wedding,  we  will  make  a 
little  sacrifice  to  her  —  a  sacrifice  of  two  doves 
—  and  if  I  only  knew  where  to  get  some  in- 
cense "  — 

"  For  shame,  Peyrehorade!  "  interrupted  his 
wife,  scandalized  to  the  last  degree.  "  Incense 
to  an  idol  {  It  would  be  an  abomination ! 


204  TALES  BEFORE  SUPPER. 

What  would  they  say  of  us  in  the  neighbor- 
hood ? " 

"At  least,"  answered  M.  de  Peyrehorade, 
"  you  will  allow  me  to  place  a  wreath  of  roses 
and  lilies  on  her  head :  Manibus  date  lilia 
plenis.  You  see,  sir,  freedom  is  an  empty 
word.  We  have  not  liberty  of  worship  !  " 

The  next  day's  arrangements  were  ordered 
in  the  following  manner  :  Every  one  was  to  be 
dressed  and  ready  at  ten  o'clock  punctually. 
After  the  chocolate  had  been  served  we  were 
to  be  driven  to  Puygarrig.  The  civil  mar- 
riage was  to  take  place  in  the  town-hall  of 
the  village,  and  the  religious  ceremony  in 
the  chapel  of  the  chateau.  Afterwards  there 
would  be  a  breakfast.  After  the  breakfast 
people  would  pass^  the  time  as  they  liked  until 
seven  o'clock.  At  that  hour  every  one  would 
return  to  M.  de  Peyrehorade's  at  Ille,  where 
the  two  families  were  to  assemble  and  have 
supper.  It  was  natural  that  being  unable  to 
dance  they  should  wish  to  eat  as  much  as 
possible. 

By  eight  o'clock  I  was  seated  in  front  of  the 
Venus,  pencil  in  hand,  recommencing  the  head 
of  the  statue  for  the  twentieth  time  without 
being'  able  to  catch  the  expression.  M.  de 
Peyrehorade  came  and  went  about  me,  giving 
me  advice,  repeating  his  Phoenician  etymology, 
and  laying  Bengal  roses  on  the  pedestal  of  the 


THE    VENUS  OF  ILLE.  205 

statue  while  he  addressed  vows  to  it  in  a  tragi- 
comic tone  for  the  young  couple  who  were 
to  live  under  his  roof.  Towards  nine  o'clock 
he  went  in  to  put  on  his  best,  and  at  the 
same  moment  M.  Alphonse  appeared  looking 
very  stiff  in  a  new  coat,  white  gloves,  chased 
sleeve-buttons,  and  varnished  shoes.  A  rose 
decorated  his  buttonhole. 

"  Will  you  make  my  wife's  portrait  ?  "  he 
asked,  leaning  over  my  drawing.  "  She  also  is 
pretty." 

On  the  racquet-court  of  which  I  have  spoken 
there  now  began  a  game  which  immediately 
attracted  M.  Alphonse's  attention.  And  I, 
tired,  and  despairing  of  ever  being  able  to  copy 
the  diabolical  face,  soon  left  my  drawing  to 
look  at  the  players.  There,  were  among  them 
some  Spanish  muleteers  who  had  arrived  the 
night  before.  They  were  from  Aragon  and 
Navarre,  and  were  nearly  all  marvelously  skill- 
ful at  the  game.  Therefore  the  Illois,  though 
encouraged  by  the  presence  and  advice  of  M. 
Alphonse,  were  promptly  beaten  by  the  for- 
eign champions.  The  native  spectators  were 
disheartened.  M.  Alphonse  looked  at  his 
watch.  It  was  only  half-past  nine.  His 
mother's  hair  he  knew  was  not  dressed.  He 
hesitated  no  longer,  but  taking  off  his  coat 
asked  for  a  jacket,  and  defied  the  Spaniards. 
I  looked  on  smiling  and  a  little  surprised. 


206  TALES  BEFORE  SUPPER. 

"  The  honor  of  the  country  must  be  sustained," 
he  said. 

Then  I  thought  him  really  handsome.  He 
seemed  full  of  life,  and  his  costume,  which  but 
now  occupied  him  so  entirely,  no  longer  con- 
cerned him.  A  few  minutes  before  he  would 
have  dreaded  to  turn  his  head  for  fear  of  dis- 
arranging his  cravat.  Now  he  did  not  give  a 
thought  to  his  curled  hair  or  his  fine  shirt-front. 
And  his  betrothed  ?  If  it  had  been  necessary 
I  think  he  would  have  postponed  the  wedding. 
I  saw  him  hurriedly  put  on  a  pair  of  sandals, 
roll  up  his  sleeves,  and,  with  an  assured  air, 
take  his  stand  at  the  head  of  the  vanquished 
party  like  Caesar  rallying  his  soldiers  at  Dyrra- 
chium.  I  leaped  the  hedge  and  placed  myself 
comfortably  in  the  shade  of  a  tree  so  as  to 
command  a  good  view  of  both  sides. 

Contrary  to  general  expectation,  M.  Alphonse 
missed  the  first  ball.  It  came  skimming  along 
the  ground,  it  is  true,  and  was  thrown  with  as- 
tonishing force  by  an  Aragonese  who  appeared 
to  be  the  leader  of  the  Spaniards. 

He  was  a  man  of  about  forty,  nervous  and 
agile,  and  at  least  six  feet  tall.  His  olive 
skin  was  almost  as  dark  as  the  bronze  of  the 
Venus. 

M.  Alphonse  threw  his  racquet  angrily  on 
the  ground. 

"  It  is  this  cursed  ring,"  he  cried,  "  which 


THE    VENUS  OF  ILLE.  2O/ 

squeezes  my  finger,  and  makes  me  miss  a  sure 
ball." 

He  drew  off  his  diamond  ring  with  some 
difficulty  ;  I  approached  to  take  it,  but  he  fore- 
stalled me  by  running  to  the  Venus  and  shov- 
ing it  on  her  fourth  finger.  He  then  resumed 
his  post  at  the  head  of  the  Illois. 

He  was  pale,  but  calm  and  resolute.  From 
that  moment  he  did  not  miss  a  single  ball,  and 
the  Spaniards  were  completely  beaten.  The 
enthusiasm  of  the  spectators  was  a  fine  sight : 
some  threw  their  caps  in  the  air  and  shouted 
for  joy,  while  others  wrung  M.  Alphonse's 
hands,  calling  him  the  honor  of  the  country. 
If  he  had  repulsed  an  invasion  I  doubt  if  he 
would  have  received  warmer  or  sincerer  con- 
gratulations. The  vexation  of  the  vanquished 
added  to  the  splendor  of  the  victory. 

"  We  will  play  other  games,  my  good  fellow," 
he  said  to  the  Aragonese  in  a  tone  of  superior- 
ity, "  but  I  will  give  you  points." 

I  should  have  wished  M.  Alphonse  to  be 
more  modest,  and  I  was  almost  pained  by  his 
rival's  humiliation. 

The  Spanish  giant  felt  the  insult  deeply.  I 
saw  him  pale  beneath  his  tan.  He  looked 
sullenly  at  his  racquet  and  clinched  his  teeth, 
then,  in  a  smothered  voice  he  muttered : 

"  Me  lo  pagards." 

M.  de   Peyrehorade's  voice  interrupted  his 


2O8  TALES  BEFORE  SUPPER. 

son's  triumph.  Astonished  at  not  finding  him 
presiding  over  the  preparation  of  the  new 
carriage,  my  host  was  even  more  surprised  on 
seeing  him  racquet  in  hand  and  bathed  in  per- 
spiration. M.  Alphonse  hurried  to  the  house, 
washed  his  hands  and  face,  put  on  again  his 
new  coat  and  patent-leather  shoes,  and  in  five 
minutes  we  were  galloping  on  the  road  to 
Puygarrig.  All  the  racquet  players  of  the  town 
and  a  crowd  of  spectators  followed  us  with 
shouts  of  joy.  The  strong  horses  which  drew 
us  could  hardly  keep  ahead  of  the  intrepid 
Catalans. 

We  were  at  Puygarrig,  and  the  procession 
was  about  to  set  out  for  the  town-hall,  when 
M.  Alphonse,  striking  his  forehead,  whispered 
to  me : 

"  What  a  mess  !  I  have  forgotten  the  ring  ! 
It  is  on  the  finger  of  the  Venus  ;  may  the  devil 
carry  her  off !  Do  not  tell  my  mother  at  any 
rate.  Perhaps  she  will  not  notice  it." 

"You  can  send  some  one  for  it,"  I  replied. 

"My  servant  remained  at  Ille.  I  do  not 
trust  these  here.  Twelve  hundred  francs'  worth 
of  diamonds  might  well  tempt  almost  any  one. 
Moreover,  what  would  they  think  of  my  for- 
getfulness.  They  would  laugh  at  me.  They 
would  call  me  the  husband  of  the  statue.  If  it 
only  is  not  stolen  !  Fortunately,  the  rascals  are 
afraid  of  the  idol.  They  do  not  dare  approach 


THE  VENUS  OF  ILLE.  209 

it  by  an  arm's  length.  After  all,  it  does  not 
matter ;  I  have  another  ring." 

The  two  ceremonies,  civil  and  religious,  were 
accomplished  with  suitable  pomp,  and  Made- 
moiselle de  Puygarrig  received  the  ring  of  a 
Parisian  milliner  without  suspecting  that  her 
betrothed  was  making  her  the  sacrifice  of  a 
love-token.  Then  we  seated  ourselves  at  table, 
where  we  ate,  drank,  and  even  sang,  all  at 
great  length.  I  suffered  for  the  bride  at  the 
coarse  merriment  which  exploded  around  her ; 
still,  she  faced  it  better  than  I  would  have  ex- 
pected, and  her  embarrassment  was  neither 
awkward  nor  affected. 

Perhaps  courage  comes  with  difficult  situa- 
tions. 

The  breakfast  ended  when  heaven  pleased. 
It  was  four  o'clock.  The  men  went  to  walk  in 
the  park,  which  was  magnificent,  or  watched 
the  peasants,  in  their  holiday  attire,  dance  on 
the  lawn  of  the  chateau.  In  this  way  we 
passed  several  hours.  Meanwhile,  the  women 
were  eagerly  attentive  to  the  bride,  who  showed 
them  her  presents.  Then  she  changed  her 
dress,  and  I  noticed  that  she  had  covered  her 
beautiful  hair  with  a  be-feathered  bonnet ;  for 
women  are  in  no  greater  hurry  than  to  assume, 
as  soon  as  possible,  the  attire  which  custom 
forbids  their  wearing  while  they  are  still  young 
girls. 


2IO  TALES  BEFORE  SUPPER. 

It  was  nearly  eight  o'clock  when  preparations 
were  made  to  start  for  Ille.  But  first  a  pa- 
thetic scene  took  place.  Mile,  de  Puygarrig's 
aunt,  a  very  old  and  pious  woman,  who  stood 
to  her  in  a  mother's  place,  was  not  to  go  with 
us.  Before  the  departure  she  gave  her  niece 
a  touching  sermon  on  her  wifely  duties,  from 
which  sermon  resulted  a  flood  of  tears  and 
endless  embraces. 

M.  de  Peyrehorade  compared  this  separation 
to  the  Rape  of  the  Sabines. 

At  last,  however,  we  got  off,  and,  on  the  way, 
every  one  exerted  himself  to  amuse  the  bride 
and  make  her  laugh  ;  but  all  in  vain. 

At  Ille  supper  awaited  us,  and  what  a  sup- 
per !  If  the  coarse  jokes  of  the  morning  had 
shocked  me,  I  was  now  much  more  so  by  the 
equivocations  and  pleasantries  of  which  the 
bride  and  groom  were  the  principal  objects. 
The  bridegroom,  who  had  disappeared  for  a 
moment  before  seating  himself  at  the  table,  was 
pale,  cold,  and  grave. 

He  drank  incessantly  some  old  Collioure 
wine  almost  as  strong  as  brandy.  I  sat  next 
to  him,  and  thought  myself  obliged  to  warn 
him.  "  Be  careful !  they  say  that  wine  "  —  I 
hardly  know  what  stupid  nonsense  I  said  to 
be  in  harmony  with  the  other  guests. 

He  touched  my  knee,  and  whispered  : 


THE    VENUS  OF  ILLE.  211 

"  When  we  have  left  the  table  ...  let  me 
have  two  words  with  you." 

His  solemn  tone  surprised  me.  I  looked 
more  closely  at  him,  and  noticed  a  strange 
alteration  in  his  features. 

"  Do  you  feel  ill  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  No." 

And  he  began  to  drink  again. 

Meanwhile,  amidst  much  shouting  and  clap- 
ping of  hands,  a  child  of  twelve,  who  had 
slipped  under  the  table,  held  up  to  the  com- 
pany a  pretty  pink  and  white  ribbon  which  he 
had  untied  from  the  bride's  ankle.  It  was 
called  her  garter,  and  at  once  cut  into  pieces 
and  distributed  among  the  young  men,  who, 
following  an  old  custom  still  preserved  in  some 
patriarchal  families,  ornamented  their  button- 
holes with  it.  This  was  the  time  for  the  bride 
to  flush  up  to  the  whites  of  her  eyes.  But  her 
confusion  was  at  its  height  when  M.  de  Peyre- 
horade,  having  called  for  silence,  sang  several 
verses  in  Catalan,  which  he  said  were  im- 
promptu. Here  is  the  meaning,  if  I  under- 
stood it  correctly : 

"  What  is  this,  my  friends  ?  has  the  wine  I 
have  drunk  made  me  see  double  ?  There  are 
two  Venuses  here  "... 

The  bridegroom  turned  his  head  suddenly 
with  a  frightened  look,  which  made  every  one 
laugh. 


212  TALES  BEFORE  SUPPER. 

"Yes, "continued M.  de  Peyrehorade,  "there 
are  two  Venuses  under  my  roof.  The  one,  I 
found  in  the  ground  like  a  truffle ;  the  other, 
descended  from  heaven,  has  just  divided  among 
us  her  belt." 

He  meant  her  garter. 

"  My  son,  choose  between  the  Roman  Venus 
and  the  Catalan  the  one  you  prefer.  The 
rascal  takes  the  Catalan,  and  his  choice  is  the 
best.  The  Roman  is  black,  the  Catalan  is 
white.  The  Roman  is  cold,  the  Catalan  en- 
flames  all  who  approach  her." 

This  equivocal  allusion  excited  such  a  shout, 
such  noisy  applause,  and  sonorous  laughter, 
that  I  thought  the  ceiling  would  fall  on  our 
heads.  Around  the  table  there  were  but  three 
serious  faces,  those  of  the  newly  married  cou- 
ple and  mine.  I  had  a  terrible  headache  ;  and 
besides,  I  do  not  know  why,  a  wedding  always 
saddens  me.  This  one,  moreover,  even  dis- 
gusted me  a  little. 

The  final  verses  having  been  sung,  and  very 
lively  they  were,  I  must  say,  every  one  adjourned 
to  the  drawing-room  to  enjoy  the  withdrawal  of 
the  bride,  who,  as  it  was  nearly  midnight,  was 
soon  to  be  conducted  to  her  room. 

M.  Alphonse  drew  me  into  the  embrasure  of 
a  window,  and,  turning  away  his  eyes,  said,  — 

"  You  will  laugh  at  me  —  But  I  don't  know 
what  is  the  matter  with  me  ...  I  am  be- 
witched I" 


THE  VENUS  OF  ILLE.  213 

My  first  thought  was  that  he  fancied  himself 
threatened  with  one  of  those  misfortunes  of 
which  Montaigne  and  Madame  de  Sevignd 
speak : 

"  All  the  world  of  love  is  full  of  tragic  his- 
tories," etc. 

"  I  thought  only  clever  people  were  subject 
to  this  sort  of  accident,"  I  said  to  myself. 

To  him  I  said :  "  You  drank  too  much  Col- 
lioure  wine,  my  dear  Monsieur  Alphonse ;  I 
warned  you  against  it." 

"  Yes,  perhaps.  But  something  much  more 
terrible  than  that  has  happened." 

His  voice  was  broken.  I  thought  him  com- 
pletely inebriated. 

"  You  know  about  my  ring  ?  "  he  continued, 
after  a  pause. 

"  Well,  has  it  been  stolen  ? " 

"  No." 

"  Then  you  have  it  ? " 

"No  —  I  —  I  cannot  get  it  off  the  ringer  of 
that  infernal  Venus." 

"  You  did  not  pull  hard  enough." 

"  Yes,  indeed  I  did  —  But  the  Venus  —  she 
has  bent  her  finger." 

He  stared  at  me  wildly,  and  leaned  against 
the  window-sash  to  prevent  himself  from  fall- 
ing. 

"  What  nonsense  !  "  I  said.  "  You  pushed 
the  ring  on  too  far.  You  can  get  it  off  to-morrow 


214  TALES  BEFORE  SUPPER. 

with  pincers.  But  be  careful  not  to  damage 
the  statue." 

"  No,  I  tell  you.  The  Venus'  finger  is 
crooked,  bent  under ;  she  clinches  her  hand, 
do  you  hear  me  ?  ...  She  is  my  wife  appar- 
ently, since  I  have  given  her  my  ring.  .  .  .  She 
will  not  return  it." 

I  shivered,  and,  for  a  moment,  I  was  all 
goose-flesh.  Then  a  great  sigh  from  him 
brought  me  a  whiff  of  wine,  and  all  my  emotion 
disappeared. 

The  wretch,  I  thought,  is  dead  drunk. 

"  You  are  an  antiquarian,  sir,"  added  the 
bridegroom  in  a  mournful  tone  ;  "  you  under- 
stand those  statues  ;  there  is,  perhaps,  some 
hidden  spring,  some  deviltry  which  I  do  not 
know  about.  Will  you  go  and  see  ?  " 

"  Certainly,"  I  replied.     "  Come  with  me." 

"  No,  I  would  prefer  to  have  you  go  alone." 

I  left  the  drawing-room. 

The  weather  had  changed  during  supper, 
and  a  heavy  rain  had  begun  to  fall.  I  was 
about  to  ask  for  an  umbrella,  when  a  sudden 
thought  stopped  me.  I  should  be  a  great  fool, 
I  reflected,  to  go  and  verify  what  had  been  told 
me  by  a  drunken  man  !  Besides,  he  may  have 
wished  to  play  some  silly  trick  on  me  to  give 
cause  for  laughter  to  the  honest  country  people ; 
and  the  least  that  can  happen  to  me  from  it  is 
to  be  drenched  to  th«  bone  and  catch  a  bad 
cold. 


THE   VENUS  OF  ILLE.  2 1 5 

From  the  door  I  cast  a  glance  at  the  statue 
running  with  water,  and  I  went  up  to  my  room 
without  returning  to  the  drawing-room.  I  went 
to  bed ;  but  sleep  was  long  in  coming.  All 
the  scenes  of  the  day  passed  through  my  mind. 
I  thought  of  the  young  girl,  so  pure  and  love- 
ly, abandoned  to  a  drunken  brute.  What  an 
odious  thing  a  marriage  of  convenience  is  !  A 
mayor  dons  a  tri-colored  scarf,  a  priest  a  stole, 
and  then  the  most  virtuous  girl  in  the  world  is 
delivered  over  to  the  Minotaur !  What  can 
two  people  who  do  not  love  each  other  find 
to  say  at  a  moment,  which  two  lovers  would 
buy  at  the  price  of  their  lives  ?  Can  a  woman 
ever  love  a  man  whom  she  has  once  seen 
coarse  ?  First  impressions  are  never  effaced, 
and  I  am  sure  M.  Alphonse  will  deserve  to  be 
hated. 

During  my  monologue,  which  I  abridge  very 
much,  I  had  heard  a  great  deal  of  coming  and 
going  in  the  house.  Doors  opened  and  shut, 
and  carriages  drove  away.  Then  I  seemed  to 
hear  on  the  stairs  the  light  steps  of  a  number 
of  women  going  towards  the  end  of  the  hall 
opposite  my  room.  It  was  probably  the  bride's 
train  of  attendants  leading  her  to  bed.  After 
that  they  went  down  stairs  again.  Madame  de 
Peyrehorade's  door  closed.  How  troubled  and 
ill  at  ease  that  poor  girl  must  be,  I  thought. 
I  tossed  about  in  my  bed  with  bad  temper.  A 


2l6  TALES  BEFORE  SUPPER. 

bachelor  plays  a  stupid  part  in  a  house  where 
a  marriage  is  accomplished. 

Silence  had  reigned  for  some  time  when  it 
was  disturbed  by  a  heavy  tread  mounting  the 
stairs.  The  wooden  steps  creaked  loudly. 

"  What  a  clown  !  "  I  cried  to  myself.  "  I 
wager  that  he  will  fall  on  the  stairs."  All  was 
quiet  again.  I  took  up  a  book  to  change  the 
current  of  my  thoughts.  It  was  the  county 
statistics,  supplemented  with  an  address  by  M. 
de  Peyrehorade  on  the  Druidical  remains  of  the 
district  of  Prades.  I  grew  drowsy  at  the  third 
page.  I  slept  badly,  and  awoke  repeatedly.  It 
might  have  been  five  o'clock  in  the  morning, 
and  I  had  been  awake  more  than  twenty  min- 
utes, when  the  cock  crew.  Day  was  about  to 
dawn.  Then  I  heard  distinctly  the  same  heavy 
footsteps,  the  same  creaking  of  the  stairs  which 
I  had  heard  before  I  fell  asleep.  I  thought  it 
strange.  Yawning,  I  tried  to  guess  why  M. 
Alphonse  got  up  so  early.  I  could  imagine  no 
likely  reason.  I  was  about  to  close  my  eyes 
again,  when  my  attention  was  freshly  excited 
by  a  singular  trampling  of  feet,  which  was  soon 
intermingled  with  the  ringing  of  bells  and  the 
sound  of  doors  opened  noisily ;  then  I  distin- 
guished confused  cries. 

"  My  drunkard  has  set  something  on  fire,"  I 
thought,  jumping  out  of  bed.  I  dressed  quickly 
and  went  into  the  hall.  From  the  opposite 


THE    VENUS  OF  ILLE.  21  / 

end  came  cries  and  lamentations,  and  a  heart- 
rending voice  dominated  all  the  others :  "  My 
son  !  my  son  !  "  It  was  evident  that  an  acci- 
dent had  happened  to  M.  Alphonse.  I  ran  to 
the  bridal  apartment :  it  was  full  of  people. 
The  first  sight  which  struck  my  gaze  was  the 
young  man  partly  dressed  and  stretched  across 
the  bed,  the  wood-work  of  which  was  broken. 
He  was  livid  and  motionless.  His  mother 
sobbed  and  wept  beside  him.  M.  de  Peyre- 
horade  moved  about  frantically  ;  he  rubbed  his 
son's  temples  with  cologne  water,  or  held  salts 
to  his  nose.  Alas  !  his  son  had  long  been 
dead.  On  a  sofa  at  the  other  side  of  the  room 
lay  the  bride,  a  prey  to  dreadful  convulsions. 
She  was  making  inarticulate  cries,  and  two 
robust  maid-servants  had  all  the  trouble  in  the 
world  to  hold  her  down.  "  Good  heavens !  " 
I  exclaimed,  "  what  has  happened  ?  " 

I  approached  the  bed  and  raised  the  body 
of  the  unfortunate  young  man  :  it  was  already 
stiff  and  cold.  His  clinched  teeth  and  black 
face  expressed  the  most  fearful  anguish.  It 
was  evident  enough  that  his  death  had  been 
violent  and  his  agony  terrible. 

Nevertheless,  no  sign  of  blood  was  on  his 
clothes.  I  opened  his  shirt,  and  on  his  chest 
I  found  a  livid  mark  which  extended  around 
the  ribs  to  the  back.  One  would  have  said  he 
had  been  squeezed  in  an  iron  ring.  My  foot 


2l8  TALES  BEFORE  SUPPER, 

touched  something  hard  on  the  carpet ;  I 
stooped  and  saw  it  was  the  diamond  ring.  I 
dragged  M.  de  Peyrehorade  and  his  wife  into 
their  room,  and  had  the  bride  carried  there. 

"  You  still  have  a  daughter,"  I  said  to  them. 
"  You  owe  her  your  care."  Then  I  left  them 
alone. 

To  me  it  did  not  seem  to  admit  of  a  doubt 
that  M.  Alphonse  had  been  the  victim  of  a 
murder  whose  authors  had  discovered  a  way 
to  introduce  themselves  into  the  bride's  room 
during  the  night.  The  bruises  on  the  chest 
and  their  circular  direction,  however,  perplexed 
me,  for  they  could  not  have  been  made  either 
by  a  club  or  an  iron  bar.  Suddenly  I  remem- 
bered having  heard  that  at  Valencia  bravi 
used  long  leather  bags  filled  with  sand  to  stun 
people  whom  they  had  been  paid  to  kill. 
Immediately  I  thought  of  the  Aragonese  mule- 
teer and  his  threat.  Yet  I  hardly  dared  sup- 
pose he  would  have  taken  such  a  terrible  re- 
venge for  a  trifling  jest. 

I  went  through  the  house  seeking  every- 
where for  traces  of  house-breaking,  but  could 
find  none.  I  descended  to  the  garden  to  see 
if  the  assassins  could  have  made  their  entrance 
from  there ;  but  there  were  no  conclusive  signs 
of  it.  In  any  case,  the  evening's  rain  had  so 
softened  the  ground  that  it  could  not  have  re- 
tained any  very  clear  impress.  Nevertheless,  I 


THE    VENUS  OF  ILLE.  2 1C) 

noticed  some  deeply  marked  footprints ;  they 
ran  in  two  contrary  directions,  but  on  the  same 
path.  They  started  from  the  corner  of  the 
hedge  next  the  racquet-court  and  ended  at  the 
door  of  the  house.  They  might  have  been 
made  by  M.  Alphonse  when  he  went  to  get  his 
ring  from  the  finger  of  the  statue.  Then  again, 
the  hedge  at  this  spot  was  narrower  than  else- 
where, and  it  must  have  been  here  that  the 
murderers  got  over  it.  Passing  and  repassing 
before  the  statue,  I  stopped  a  moment  to  con- 
sider it.  This  time,  I  must  confess,  I  could 
not  contemplate  its  expression  of  vicious  irony 
without  fear ;  and,  my  mind  being  filled  with 
vhe  horrible  scene  I  had  just  witnessed,  I 
seemed  to  see  in  it  a  demoniacal  goddess  ap- 
plauding the  sorrow  fallen  on  the  house. 

I  returned  to  my  room  and  stayed  there 
till  noon.  Then  I  left  it  to  ask  news  of  my 
hosts.  They  were  a  little  calmer.  Mile,  de 
Puygarrig,  or  I  should  say  the  widow  of  M. 
Alphonse,  had  regained  consciousness.  She 
had  even  spoken  to  the  procurcur  du  roi  from 
Perpignan,  then  in  circuit  at  Ille,  and  this 
magistrate  had  received  her  deposition.  He 
asked  for  mine.  I  told  him  what  I  knew,  and 
did  not  hide  from  him  my  suspicions  about  the 
Aragonese  muleteer.  He  ordered  him  to  be 
arrested  on  the  spot. 

"  Have  you  learned    anything  from  Mme. 


22O  TALES  BEFORE  SUPPER. 

Alphonse  ?  "  I  asked  the  procureur  du  roi  when 
my  deposition  was  written  and  signed. 

"  That  unfortunate  young  woman  has  gone 
crazy,"  he  said,  smiling  sadly.  "  Crazy,  quite 
crazy.  This  is  what  she  says  : 

"  She  had  been  in  bed  for  several  minutes  with 
the  curtains  drawn,  when  the  door  of  her  room 
opened  and  some  one  entered.  Mme.  Al- 
phonse was  on  the  inside  of  the  bed  with  her 
face  turned  to  the  wall.  Assured  that  it  was 
her  husband  she  did  not  move.  Presently  the 
bed  creaked  as  if  laden  with  a  tremendous 
weight.  She  was  terribly  frightened,  but  dared 
not  turn  her  head.  Five  minutes,  or  ten  min- 
utes perhaps  —  she  has  no  idea  of  the  time  — 
passed  in  this  way.  Then  she  made  an  in- 
voluntary movement,  or  else  it  was  the  other 
person  who  made  one,  and  she  felt  the  contact 
of  something  as  cold  as  ice,  that  is  her  expres- 
sion. She  buried  herself  against  the  wall 
trembling  in  all  her  limbs. 

"  Shortly  afterwards,  the  door  opened  a  sec- 
ond time,  and  some  one  came  in  who  said, 
'  Good  evening,  my  little  wife.'  Then  the  cur- 
tains were  drawn  back.  She  heard  a  stifled  cry. 
The  person  who  was  in  the  bed  beside  her  sat 
up  apparently  with  extended  arms.  Then  she 
turned  her  head  and  saw  her  husband,  kneeling 
by  the  bed  with  his  head  on  a  level  with  the 
pillow,  held  close  in  the  arms  of  a  sort  of 


THE    VENUS  OF  ILLE.  221 

prreenish-colored  giant.  She  says,  and  she  re- 
peated it  to  me  twenty  times,  poor  woman !  — 
she  says  that  she  recognized  —  do  you  guess 
who?  —  the  bronze  Venus,  M.  de  Peyrehorade's 
statue.  Since  it  has  been  here  every  one  dreams 
about  it.  But  to  continue  the  poor  lunatic's 
story.  At  this  sight  she  lost  consciousness, 
and  probably  she  had  already  lost  her  mind. 
She  cannot  tell  how  long  she  remained  in  this 
condition.  Returned  to  her  senses  she  saw  the 
phantom,  or  the  statue  as  she  insists  on  call- 
ing it,  lying  immovable,  the  legs  and  lower  part 
of  the  body  on  the  bed,  the  bust  and  arms  ex- 
tended forward,  and  between  the  arms  her  hus- 
band, quite  motionless.  A  cock  crew.  Then 
the  statue  left  the  bed,  let  fall  the  body,  and 
went  out.  Mme.  Alphonse  rushed  to  the  bell, 
and  you  know  the  rest." 

The  Spaniard  was  brought  in  ;  he  was  calm, 
and  defended  himself  with  much  coolness  and 
presence  of  mind.  He  did  not  deny  the  re- 
mark which  I  had  overheard,  but  he  explained 
it,  pretending  that  he  did  not  mean  anything 
except  that  the  next  day,  when  rested,  he 
would  beat  his  victor  at  a  game  of  racquets. 
I  remember  that  he  added  : 

"  An  Aragonese  when  insulted  does  not  wait 
till  the  next  day  to  revenge  himself.  If  I  had 
believed  that  M.  Alphonse  wished  to  insult  me 
I  would  have  ripped  him  up  with  my  knife  on 
the  spot." 


222  TALES  BEFORE  SUPPER. 

His  shoes  were  compared  with  the  footprints 
in  the  garden  ;  the  shoes  were  much  the  larger. 

Finally,  the  innkeeper  with  whom  the  man 
lodged  asserted  that  he  had  spent  the  entire 
night  rubbing  and  dosing  one  of  his  mules 
which  was  sick.  And,  moreover,  the  Aragonese 
was  a  man  of  good  reputation,  well  known  in 
the  neighborhood,  where  he  came  every  year 
on  business. 

So  he  was  released  with  many  apologies. 

I  have  forgotten  to  mention  the  statement  of 
a  servant  who  was  the  last  person  to  see  M. 
Alphonse  alive.  It  was  just  as  he  was  about 
to  join  his  wife,  and  calling  to  this  man  he 
asked  him  in  an  anxious  way  if  he  knew  where 
I  was.  The  servant  answered  that  he  had  not 
seen  me.  M.  Alphonse  sighed,  and  stood  a 
minute  without  speaking,  then  he  said  :  "  Well ! 
the  devil  must  have  carried  him  off  also  !  " 

I  asked  the  man  if  M.  Alphonse  had  on  his 
diamond  ring.  The  servant  hesitated ;  at  last 
he  said  he  thought  not ;  but  for  that  matter  he 
had  not  noticed. 

"If  the  ring  had  been  on  M.  Alphonse's 
finger,"  he  added,  recovering  himself,  "  I 
should  probably  have  noticed  it,  for  I  thought 
he  had  given  it  to  Mme.  Alphonse." 

When  questioning  the  man  I  felt  a  little 
of  the  superstitious  terror  which  Mme.  Al- 
phonse's statement  had  spread  through  the 


THE   VENUS  OF  ILLE.  22$ 

house.  The  proatreur  du  rot  smiled  at  me,  and 
I  was  careful  not  to  insist  further. 

A  few  hours  after  the  funeral  of  M.  Alphonse 
I  prepared  to  leave  Ille.  M.  de  Peyrehorade's 
carriage  was  to  take  me  to  Perpignan.  Not- 
withstanding his  feeble  condition,  the  poor  old 
man  wished  to  accompany  me  as  far  as  the 
garden  gate.  We  crossed  the  garden  in  silence, 
he  creeping  along  supported  by  my  arm.  As 
we  were  about  to  part  I  threw  a  last  glance  at 
the  Venus.  I  foresaw  that  my  host,  though  he 
did  not  share  the  fear  and  hatred  which  it  in- 
spired in  his  family,  would  wish  to  rid  himself 
of  an  object  which  must  ceaselessly  recall  to 
him  a  dreadful  misfortune.  My  intention  was 
to  induce  him  to  place  it  in  a  museum.  As  I 
hesitated  to  open  the  subject,  M.  de  Peyre- 
horade  turned  his  head  mechanically  in  the 
direction  he  saw  I  was  looking  so  fixedly.  He 
perceived  the  statue,  and  immediately  melted 
into  tears.  I  embraced  him,  and  got  into  the 
carriage  without  daring  to  say  a  word. 

Since  my  departure  I  have  not  learned  that 
any  new  light  has  been  thrown  on  this  mysteri- 
ous catastrophe. 

M.  de  Peyrehorade  died  several  months  after 
his  son.  In  his  will  he  left  me  his  manuscripts, 
which  I  may  publish  some  day.  I  did  not  find 
among  them  the  article  relative  to  the  inscrip- 
tions on  the  Venus. 


224  TALES  BEFORE  SUPPER. 

P.  S.  —  My  friend  M.  de  P.  has  just  written 
to  me  from  Perpignan  that  the  statue  no  longer 
exists.  After  her  husband's  death  Madame  de 
Peyrehorade's  first  care  was  to  have  it  cast  into 
a  bell,  and  in  this  new  shape  it  does  duty  in 
the  church  at  Ille.  "  But,"  adds  M.  de  P.,  "  it 
seems  as  if  bad  luck  pursues  those  who  own 
the  bronze.  Since  the  bell  rings  at  Ille  the 
vines  have  twice  been  frozen." 


DEC  0  S 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


